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I 



POEMS 



OF 



Alfred Tennyson, 



Poet-Laureate of England. 



Illustrated by Hammatt Billings. 



BOSTON: 
J. E. TILTON AND COMPANY. 

1866. 



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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by 

J. E. TiLTON AND Company, 

in the Clerk's Ofifice of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE : 

STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 

H. 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 



TO THE QUEEN. 

Revered, beloved — you that hold 

A nobler office upon earth 

Than arms, or power of brain, or birth 
Could give the warrior kings of old, 

Victoria, — since your Eoyal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener from the brows 

Of him that utter' d nothing base ; 

And should your greatness, and the care 
That yokes with empire, yield you time 
To make demand of modern rhyme 

If aught of ancient worth be there ; 

Then — while a sweeter music wakes, 
And thro' wild March the throstle calls, 
Where all about your palace- walls 

The sunlit almond-blossom shakes — 

Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; 
For tho' the faults were thick as dust 
In vacant chambers, I could trust 

Your kindness. May you rule us long, 

And leave us rulers of j'our blood 

As noble till the latest day ! 

May children of our children say, 
" She wrought her people lasting good ; 

" Her court was pure ; her life serene ; 

God gave her peace ; her land reposed ; 

A thousand claims to reverence closed 
In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen ; 

" And statesmen at her council met 
Who knew the seasons when to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 

The bounds of freedom wider yet 

" By shaping some august decree, 
Which kept her throne unshaken still, 
Broad-based upon her people's will. 

And compass' d by the inviolate sea." 

March, 1851. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

CLARIBEL 1 

LILIAN 2 

ISABEL 3 

MAKIANA ... . . f . . . . 4 

TO 6 

MADELINE 7 

SONG, — THE OWL 8 

SECOND SONG, — TO THE SAME 9 

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS .... 9 

ODE TO MEMORY . 14 

SONG 17 

ADELINE 17 

A CHARACTER 19 

THE POET 20 

THE poet's mind 21 

THE sea-fairies 23 

THE DESERTED HOUSE 24 

THE DYING SWAN 25 

A DIRGE 26 

LOVE AND DEATH 27 

THE BALLAD OF ORIANA 28 

CIRCUMSTANCE 30 

THE MERMAN 31 

THE MERMAID 32 

SONNET TO J. M. K 33 

THE LADY OP SHALOTT , . 34 

MARIANA IN THE SOUTH 39 

ELEANORE 41 

THE miller's DAUGHTER 45 



VI CONTENTS. 

FAOB 

FATIMA 52 

CENONE 54 

THE SISTERS . 60 

TO .....". 61 

THE PALACE OF ART 62 

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE 71 

THE MAY QUEEN . . 74 

new-year's EVE • . 76 

CONCLUSION . '. 78 

THE LOTUS-EATERS 80 

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 84 

MARGARET 93 

THE BLACKBIRD 95 

THE DEATH OP THE OLD YEAR 96 

TO J. S 97 

"you ASK ME, WHY, THO' ILL AT EASE," .... 99 

" OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS," ... 100 

"love THOU THY LAND, WITH LOVE FAR-BROUGHT," . . 101 

THE GOOSE • .• . 104 

THE EPIC 105 

MORTE D'ARTHUR 107 

THE gardener's DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES .' . . 115 

DORA 122 

AUDLEY COURT 126 

WALKING TO THE MAIL ........ 128 

EDWIN MORRIS ; OR, THE LAKE 131 

ST. SIMEON STYLITES 135 

THE TALKING OAK 141 

LOVE AND DUTY 149 

THE GOLDEN YEAR 152 

ULYSSES 153 

LOCKSLEY HALL . . 155 

GODIVA 165 

THE TWO VOICES . 167 

THE DAY dream: — 

PROLOGUE . . . . , . . . . . 181 

THE SLEEPING PALACE 181 

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY 183 

THE ARRIVAL 184 

THE REVIVAL 185 



CONTENTS. VU 

PAGE 
THE DAY dream: — 

THE DEPAETURE 186 

MORAL 187 

L'ENVOI 187 

EPILOGUE 189 

AMPHION ^ 189 

ST. AGNES' EVE 192 

SIR GALAHAD 193 

EDWARD GRAY 196 

AVILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE . . . 197 

TO , AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS . . . 204 

TO E. L , ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE .... 205 

LADY CLARE 205 

THE LORD OP BURLEIGH 209 

SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE 211 

A FAREWELL 212 

THE BEGGAR MAID . 214 

THE VISION OP SIN 215 

" COME NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD,"" 221 

THE EAGLE 221 

" MOVE EASTWARD, HAPPY EARTH, AND LEAVE," . . . 221 

"break, BREAK, BREAK," 222 

THE poet's song 222 

THE princess: A MEDLEY . 223 

prologue 223 

conclusion , . . 300 

in memoriam 303 

MAUD 389 

THE brook; an IDYL 426 

THE LETTERS 1832 

ODE ON THE DEATH OP THE DUKE OP WELLINGTON . . ^^34 U- 

THE DAISY 440 

TO THE REV. P. B. MAURICE 443 

WILL . 445 

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 445 

IDYLLS OP THE KING : — 

DEDICATION 447 

/ ENID • . 449 

VIVIEN 493 

ELAINE 514 



viii CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

idylls of the king: — 

guinevere 549 

enoch arden 567 

aylmer's field 590 

sea dreams 610 

the grandmother 619 

northern farmer 623 

tithonus 626 

THE VOYAGE .628 

IN THE VALLEY OP CAUTERETZ 630 

THE FLOWER 631 

REQUIESCAT 631 

THE SAILOR BOY 632 

THE ISLET 633 

THE RINGLET 635 

A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA 636 

A DEDICATION 637 

BOADICEA 638 

IN QUANTITY 641 

"O YOU CHORUS OF INDOLENT REVIEWERS," . . . . 642 

SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD IN BLANK VERSE 642 

THE CAPTAIN ; A LEGEND OP THE NAVY .... 643 

" COME NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD," 645 

"my LIFE IS FULL OF WEARY DAYS," .... 645 

THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE 646 

"lady, let the ROLLING DRUMS," 647 

" HOME THEY BROUGHT HIM SLAIN WITH SPEARS," . . 647 

ON A MOURNER 647 




POEMS 



CLARIBEL 



A :mei.oi)Y. 



1. 
Where Claribel low-lieth 
The breezes pause and die, 
Letting the rose-leaves fall : 
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, 
Thick-leaved, ambrosial, 
With an ancient melody 
Of an inward agony, 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 

2. 
At eve the beetle boometh 

Athwart the thicket lone : 
At noon the wild bee hummeth 
About the moss'd headstone : 
At midnight the moon cometh, 

And looketh down alone. 
Her song the lintwhite swelleth, 
The clear- voiced mavis dwelleth. 



LILIAN. 



The callow throstle llspeth. 
The slumbrous wave outwelleth, 

The babbling runnel crispeth, 
The hollow grot replieth 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 



LILIAN. 

1. 

Airy, fairy Lilian, 
Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
When I ask her if she love me. 
Clasps her tiny hands above me, 

Laughing all she can ; 
She 11 not teU me if she love me. 
Cruel little Lilian. ) 
2. 
• When my passion seeks 
Pleasance in love-sighs. 
She, looking thro' and thro' me 
Thoroughly to undo me, 

Smiling, never speaks : 
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, 
From beneath her gather'd wimple 

Glancing with black-beaded eyes. 
Till the lightning laughters dimple 
The baby-roses in her cheeks ; 
Then away she flies. 
3. 
Prythee weep. May Lilian ! 

Gayety without eclipse 
Wearieth me. May Lilian : 
Thro' my very heart it thrilleth 

When from crimson-threaded lips 
Silver-treble laughter trilleth : 
Prythee weep. May Lilian. 
4. 
Praying all I can, 
If prayers will not hush thee. 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-laaf I will crush thee, 
Fairy Lilian. 



ISABEL. 

1. 

Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but fed 
With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, 
Clear, without heat, undying, tended by 

Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent fane 
Of her still spirit ; locks not wide-dispread, 
Madonna-wise on either side her head; 
SAveet lips whereon perpetually did reiga 
The summer calm of golden charity, 
Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood, 

Revered Isabel, the croAvn and head, 
The stately flower of female fortitude. 

Of perfect wifehood and pure lowlihead. 

• . ^• 

The intuitive decision of a bright 

And thorough-edged intellect to part 

Error from crime ; a prudence to withhold ; 
The laws of marriage character'd in gold 
Upon the blanched tablets of her heart ; 
A love still burning upward, giving light 
To read those laws ; an accent very low 
In blandishment, but a most silver flow 

Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, 
Right to the heart and brain, tho' undescried. 
Winning its way with extreme gentleness 
Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride ; 
A courage to endure and to obey ; 
A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, 
Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, 
The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife. 
3. 
The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon ; 
A clear stream flowing with a nmddy one. 
Till in its onward current it absorbs 

AVith swifter movement and in purer light 

The vexed eddies of its wayward brother : 
A leaning and upbearing parasite. 
Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite, 
With cluster'd flower-bells and ambrosial orbs 

Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other — 
Shadow forth thee : — the world hath not another 
(Tho' all her fairest forms are types of thee, 
And thou of God in thy great charity) 
Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity. 




MARIANA. 

• Mariana in the moated grange."— Measure for 2le(isii 

AViTH blackest moss the flower-plots 

Were thickly crusted, one and all : 
The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the pear to the garden-wall. 
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange : 
Unlifted was the clinking latch ; 
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He Cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " 

Her te-cirs fell with the dews at even ; 

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; 
She could not look on the sweet heaven, 

Either at morn or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats. 

When thickest dark did trance the sky, 
Slie drew her casement-curtain by, 
And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 
She only said, " The night is dreary. 

He Cometh not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, avvear\', 

I would that I were dead ! " 



Upon the middle of the night. 

Waking she heard the night-fbvvl ci'ow 



MARIANA. 

The cock sung out an hour ere light : 
From the dark fen the oxen's low 
Came to her : without hope of change, 
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, 
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " The day is dreary, 

He Cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " 

About a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, 
And o'er it many, round and small. 

The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. 
Hard by a poplar shook alway. 

All silver-green with gnarled bark : 
For leagues no other tree did mark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 

She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He Cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " 

And ever when the moon was low, 

And the shrill Avinds were up and away. 
In the white curtain, to and fro, 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low, 

And wild winds bound within their cell. 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, " The night is dreary. 

He Cometh not," she said ; 
She said, "I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " 

All day within the dreamy house. 

The doors upon their hinges creak'd ; 

The blue fly sung in the pane ; the mouse 
Behind the mouldering wainscot shrlek'd. 

Or from the crevice peer'd about. 
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors. 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors. 

Old voices called her from without. 



TO 

She only said, " My life is dreary, 
He cometli not," she said ; 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! " 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 
Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour 
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 
Athwart the chambers, and the day 
Was sloping toward his western bower. 
Then said she, " I am very dreary, 

He will not come," she said ; 

She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, 

Oh God, that I were dead ! " 



TO 



1. 
Clear-heabed friend, whose joyful scorn, 
Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain 
The knots that tangle human creeds. 
The wounding cords that bind and strain 
The heart until it bleeds, 
Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn 

Roof not a glance so keen as thine : 
If aught of prophecy be mine, 
Thou wilt not live in vain. 
2. 
Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit ; 

Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow : 
Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now 
With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. 
Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords 
Can do away that ancient lie ; 
A gentler death shall Falsehood die, 
Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words. 

3. 
Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch. 
Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need. 



MADELINE. 

Thy kingly intellect shall feed, 
Until she be an athlete bold, 
And weary with a finger's touch 

.Those writhed limbs of lightning speed ; 
Like that strano-e angel which of old. 

Until the breaking of the light. 
Wrestled with wandering Israel, 

Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, 
And heaven's mazed signs stood still 
In the dim tract of Penuel. 



MADELINE. 

1. 
Thou art not steep'd in golden languors, 
No tranced summer calm is thine, 

Ever varying Madeline. 
Thro' light and shadow thou dost range, 
Sudden glances, sweet and strange, 
Delicious spites and darling angers, 
And airy forms of flitting change. 
2. 
Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect In love-lore. 
Revealings deep and clear are thine 
Of wealthy smiles ; but who may know 
Whether smile or frown be fleeter ? 
Whether smile or frown be sweeter, 

Who may know ? 
Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow 
Light-glooming over eyes divine. 
Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine, 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thy smile and frown are not aloof 
From one another. 
Each to each is dearest brother ; 
Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
Momently shot into each other. 
All the mystery is thine ; 
Smiling, fi-owning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore, 
Ever varying Madeline. 



SONG. THE OWL. 



A subtle, sudden flame, 

By veering passion fann'd, 

About thee breaks and dances ; 
When I would kiss thy hand, 
The flush of anger'd shame 

O'erflows thy calmer glances, 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown : 
But when I turn away, 
Thou, willing me to stay, 

Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest ; 

But, looking fixedly the while, 
All my bounding heart entanglest 

In a golden-netted smile ; 
Then in madness and in bliss. 
If my lips should dare to kiss 
Thy taper fingers amorously, 
Again thou blushest angerly ; 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown. 



SONG. — THE OWL. 

1. 
When cats run home and light is come, 

And dew is cold upon the ground, 
And the far-off stream is dumb. 
And the whirring sail goes round. 
And the whirring sail goes round ; 
Alone and warming his five wits. 
The white owl in the belfi^y sits. 
2. 
When merry milkmaids click the latch, 
And rarely smells the new-mown hay, 
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch 
Twice or thrice his roundelay, 
Twice or thrice his roundelay ; 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 

SECOND SONG. 

TO THE SAME. 

1. 

Thy tu whits are luU'd I wot, 

Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, 
Which upon the dark afloat. 
So took echo with delight. 
So took echo with delight, 

That her voice imtuneful grown. 
Wears all day a fainter tone. 
2. 
I would mock thy chant anew; 

But I cannot mimic it ; 
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo. 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit. 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 

With a lengthen'd loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o. 



RECOLLECTIONS 



THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 

When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free 

In the silken sail of infancy. 

The tide of time flow'd back with me. 

The forward-flowing tide of time ; 
And many a sheeny summer-morn, 
Adown the Tigris I was borne, 
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold. 
High-walled gardens green and old ; 
True Mussulman was I and sworn. 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Anight my shallop, rustling thro' 
The low and bloomed foliage, drove 



10 RECOLLECTIONS OF 

The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove 
The citron-shadows in the blue : 
By garden porches on the brim. 
The costly doors flung open wide, 
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, 
And broider'd sofas on each side : 
In sooth it was a goodly time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard 
The outlet, did I turn away 
The boat-head down a broad canal 
From the main river sluiced, where all 
The sloping of the moon-lit sward 
Was damask-work, and deep inlay 
Of braided blooms unmown, which crept 
Adown to where the water slept. 
A goodly place, a goodly time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 
My shallop thro' the star-strown calm, 
Until another night in night 
I enter'd, from the clearer light, 
• Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm, 

Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb 
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome 
Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Still onward ; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical, 
Thro' little crystal arches low 
Down from the central fountain's flow 
Fall'n silver-chiming, seem'd to shake 
The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 
A goodly place, a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 11 

Above thro' many a bowery turn 
A walk with vary-color'd shells 
Wander'd engrain'd. On either side 
All round about the fragrant marge 
From fluted vase, and brazen urn 
In order, eastern flowers large, 
Some dropping low their crimson bells 
Half-closed, and others studded wide 

With disks and tiars, fed the time 

With odor in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Far off, and where the lemon grove 
In closest coverture upsprung, 
The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bulbul as he sung ; 
Not he : but something which possess'd 
The darkness of the world, delight, 
Life, anguish, death, immortal love. 
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd. 

Apart from place, withholding time. 

But flattering the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Black the garden-bowers and grots 
Slumber'd : the solemn palms were ranged 
Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : 
A sudden splendor from behind 
Flush'd aU the leaves with rich gold-green, 
And, flowing rapidly between 
Their interspaces, counterchanged 
The level lake with diamond-plots 

Of dark and bright. A lovely time. 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead. 
Distinct with vi\"id stars inlaid. 
Grew darker from that under-flame : 
So, leaping lightly from the boat, 
With silver anchor left afloat. 
In marvel whence that glory came 
Upon me, as in sleep I sank 
In cool soft turf upon the bank. 

Entranced with that place and time. 



12 RECOLLECTIONS OF 

So worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — 
A realm of pleasance, many a mound, 
And many a shadow-checker'd lawn 
Full of the city's stilly sound, 
And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round 
The stately cedar, tamarisks, 
Thick rosaries of scented thorn. 
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 

Graven with emblems of the time, 
In honor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

With dazed vision unawares 
From the long alley's latticed shade 
Emerged, I came upon the great 
Pavilion of the Caliphat. 
Right to the carven cedarn doors, 
Flung inward over spangled floors, 
Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
Ran up with golden balustrade. 
After the fashion of the time. 
And humor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of flame, 
A million tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers look'd to shame 
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of night new-risen, that marvellous time 
To celebrate the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Then stole I up, and trancedly 
Gazed on the Persian girl alone, 
Serene with argent-lidded eyes 
Amorous, and lashes like to rays 
Of darkness, and a brow of pearl 
Tressed with redolent ebony, 




In niiiny a <lark delicious curl, 
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; 
The sweetest lady of the time, 
Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of irood Haroun Alraschid. 



Six columns, three on either side, 
Pure silver, underpropt a rich 
Throne of the massive ore. from whi(;l 
Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold, 
Engarlanded and diaper'd 
AV^ith inwrought flowers, a cloth of gol 



14 ODE TO MEMORY. 

Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd 
Witli merriment of kingly pride, 
Sole star of all that place and time, 
I saw him — in his golden prime. 
The Good Haroun Alraschid ! 



ODE TO MEMORY. 

1. 
Thoti who stealest fire 
From the fountains of the past, 
To glorify the present ; oh, haste, 

Visit my low desire ! 
Strengthen me, enlighten me ! 
I faint in this obscm^ity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 
2. 
Come not as thou earnest of late, 
Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
On the white day ; but robed in soften'd light 

Of orient state. 
Whilome thou camest Avith the morning mist, 

Even as a maid, whose stately brow 
The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss'd, 

When she, as thou, 
Stays on her floating locks the lovely freights 
Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots 
Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, 
Which in wintertide shall star 
The black earth with brilliance rare. 

3. 
Whilome thou camest with the morning mist. 

And with the evening cloud, 
Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast, 
(Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind 

Never grow sear. 
When rooted in the garden of the mind, 
Because they are the earliest of the year). 
Nor was the night thy shroud. 
In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest 
Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope. 
The eddying of her garments caught from thee 
The light of thy great presence ; and the cope 
Of the half-attain'd futurity, 
Tho' deep not fathomless. 



ODE TO MEMOllY. 15 

Was cloven with the million stars which tremble 
O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. 
Small thought was there of life's distress ; 
For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could dull 
Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful : 
Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres, 
Listening the lordly music flowing from 
The illimitable years. 

strengthen me, enlighten me ! 

1 faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 

4. 
Come forth I charge thee, arise, 
Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes ! 
Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines 
Unto mine inner eye, 
Divinest Memory ! 
Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall 
Which ever sounds and shines 

A pillar of white light upon the wall 
Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : 
Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side, 
The seven elms, the poplars four 
That stand beside my father's door, 
And chiefly from the brook that loves 
To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, 
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves. 
Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, 

In every elbow and turn. 
The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland. 

O ! hither lead thy feet ! 
Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat 
Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds, 

Upon the ridged wolds,' 
When the first matin-song hath waken'd loud 
Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, 
What time the amber morn 
Forth gushes fi-om beneath a low-hung cloud. 

5. 
Large dowries doth the raptured eye 
To the young spirit present 
When first she is wed ; 

And like a bride of old 
In triumph led, 

With music and sweet showers 
Of festal flowers, 



16 ODE TO MEMORY. 

Unto the dwelling she must sway. 
Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, 

In setting round thy first experiment 

With royal frame-work of wrought gold ; 
Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay, 
And foremost in thy various gallery 

Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls 

Upon the storied walls ; 
For the discovery 
And newness of thine art so pleased thee, 
That all which thou hast drawn of fairest 

Or boldest since, but lightly weighs 
With thee unto the love thou bearest 
The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like, 
Ever retiring thou dost gaze 
On the prime labor of thine early daj^s : 
No matter what the sketch might be ; 
Wliether the high field on the bushless Pike, 
Or even a sand-built ridge 
Of heaped hills that mound the sea. 
Overblown with murmurs harsh, 
Or even a lowly cottage whence we see 
Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous marsh, 
Wliere fi:'om the frequent bridge. 
Like emblems of infinity, 
The trenched waters run from sky to sky ; 
Or a garden bower'd close 
With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, 
Long alleys falling down to twilight grots. 
Or opening upon level plots 
Of crowned lilies, standing near 
Purple-spiked lavender : 
Whither in after-life retired 
From brawling storms. 
From weary wind. 
With youthful fancy reinspired. 
We may hold converse with all forms 
Of the many-sided mind. 
And those whom passion hath not blinded, 
Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded. 
My friend, with you to live alone, 
Were how much better than to own 
A crown, a sceptre, and a throne ! 

strengthen me, enlighten me ! 

1 faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



17 



SONG. 

1. 
A SPIRIT haunts tlie year's last hours 
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers : 

To himself he talks ; 
For at eventide, listening earnestly, 
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh 
In the walks ; 

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks 
Of the mouldering flowers : 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 
2. 
The air is damp, and hush'd, and close. 
As a sick man's room when he taketh repose 

An hour before death ; 
My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves 
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, 
And the breath 

Of the fading edges of box beneath, 
And the year's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly : 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock. 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 

ADELINE. 

1. 
Mystery of mysteries, 
Faintly smiling Adeline, 
Scarce of earth nor all divine, 
Nor unhappy, nor at rest, 

But beyond expression fair 
With thy floating flaxen hair; 
Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 

Take the heart from out my breast. 
Wherefore those dim looks of thine. 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 
2. 
Whence that aery bloom of thine, 
Like a lily whic'h the sun 
2 



18 ADELINE. 

Looks thro' in sad decline, 

And a rose-busli leans upon, 
Thou that faintly smilest still, 
As a Naiad in a well, 
Looking at the set of day. 
Or a phantom two hours old 

Of a maiden past away. 
Ere the placid lips be cold ? 
Wherefore those faint smiles of thine, 
Spiritual Adeline ? 
3. 
What hope or fear or joy is thine ? 
Who talketh with thee, Adeline ? 
For sure thou art not all alone : 

Do beating hearts of salient springs 
Keep measure with thine own ? 

Hast thou heard the butterflies 
What they say betwixt their wings ? 
Or in stillest evenings 
With what voice the violet woos 
To his heart the silver dews ? 
Or when little airs arise. 
How the merry bluebell rings 
To the mosses underneath ? 
Hast thou look'd upon the breath 
Of the lilies at sunrise ? 
Wherefore that faint smile of thine. 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 

4. 
Some honey-converse feeds thy mind. 
Some spirit of a crimson rose 
In love with thee forgets to close 
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs 
All night long on darkness blind. 
What aileth thee ? whom waitest thou 
With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, 

And those dew-lit eyes of thine, 
Thou faint smiler, Adeline ? 

Lovest thou the doleful wind 

When thou gazest at the skies ? 
Doth the low-tongued Orient 

Wander from the side of the morn, 
Dripping with Sabsean spice 
On thy pillow, lowly bent 



A CHARACTER. 19 

With melodious airs lovelorn, 
Breathing Light against thy face, 
While his locks a-clrooping twined 
Round thy neck in subtle ring 
Make a carcanet of rays, 

And ye talk together still, 
In the language wherewith Spring 
Letters cowslips on the hill ? 
Hence that look and smile of thine, 
Spiritual Adeline. 



A CHARACTER. 

With a half-glance upon the sky 
At night he said, " The wanderings 
Of this most intricate Universe 
Teach me the nothingness of things." 
Yet could not all creation pierce 
Beyond the bottom of his eye. 

He spake of beauty : that the dull 

Saw no divinity in grass. 

Life in dead stones, or spirit in air ; 

Then looking as 't were in a glass, 

He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his hair. 

And said the earth was beautiful. 

He spake of virtue : not the gods 
More purely, when they wish to charm 
Pallas and Juno sitting by : 
And with a sweeping of the arm, 
And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, 
Devolved his rounded periods. 

Most delicately hour by hour 
He canvass'd human mysteries. 
And trod on silk, as if the winds 
Blew his own praises in his eyes, 
And stood aloof from other minds 
In impotence of fancied power. 

With lips depress'd as he were meek. 
Himself unto himself he sold : 
Upon himself himself did feed : 



20 ' THE POET. 

Quiet, dispassionate, and cold. 
And other than his form of creed. 
With chisell'd features clear and sleek. 



THE POET. 

The poet in a golden clime was born. 

With golden stars above ; 
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn. 
The love of love. 

He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill, 

He saw thro' his own soul. 
The marvel of the everlasting will, 
An open scroll, 

Before him lay : with echoing feet he threaded 

The secretest walks of fame ; 
The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed 
And wing'd with flame, 

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue. 

And of so fierce a flight. 
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung. 
Filling with light 

And vagrant melodies the winds which bore 

Them earthward till they lit ; 
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower. 
The fruitful wit 

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew 

Where'er they fell, behold. 
Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew 
A flower all gold, 

And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling 

The winged shafts of truth. 
To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring 
Of Hope and Youth. 

So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, 

Tho' one did fling the fire. 
Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams 
Of high desire. 



THE poet's mind. 21 

Thus triitli was multiplied on truth, the world 

Like one great garden show'd, 
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, 
Eare sunrise flow'd. 

And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise 

Her beautiful bold brow, 
AVhen rites and forms before his burning eyes 
Melted like snow. 

There was no blood upon her maiden robes 

Sunn'd by those orient skies ; 
But round about the circles of the globes 
Of her keen eyes 

And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame 

Wisdom, a name to shake 
All evil dreams of power — a sacred name. 
And when she spake, 

Her words did gather thunder as they ran. 

And as the lightning to the thunder 
Which follows it, riving the spirit of man. 
Making earth wonder. 

So was their meaning to her words. No sword 

Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, 
But one poor poet's scroll, and with Ms word 
She shook the world. 



THE POET'S MIND. 
1. 
Vex not thou the poet's mind 

With thy shallow wit : 
Vex not thou the poet's mind ; 

For thou canst not fathom it. 
Clear and bright it should be ever, 
Flowing like a crystal river ; 
Bright as light, and clear as wind. 

2. 
Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear ; 

All the place is holy ground ; 
Hollow smile and frozen sneer 
Come not here. 



22 THE poet's MINI). 

Holy water will I pour 
Into every spicy flower 
^ Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. 
The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer. 
In your eye there is death, 
There is frost in your breath 
Which would blight tlie plants. 
Where you stand you cannot hear 
From the groves within 
The wild-bird's din. 
In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants, 
It would fall to the ground if you came in. 
In the middle leaps a fountain 
Like sheet-lightning, 
Ever brightening 
With a low melodious thunder ; 
All day and all night it is ever drawn 
From the brain of the purple mountain 
Which stands in the distance yonder : 
It springs on a level of bowery lawn, 
And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, 
And it sings a song of undying love ; 
And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full, 
You never would hear it ; your ears are so dull ; 
So keep where you are : you are foul with sin ; 
It would shrink to the earth if you came in. 




THE SEA-FAIRIES. 

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw, 
Betwixt the green brink and the running foam, 
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest 
To little harps of gold ; and while they mused. 
Whispering to each other half in fear, 
Shrill music reach'd them on the middle sea. 



Whither away, whither away, whither away ? fly no more. 
Whither away from the high green field, and the hap])y 

blossoming shore ? 
Day and night. to the billow the fountain calls : 
Down shower the gambolling waterfalls 
From wandering over the lea : 
Out of the live-green heart of the dells 
They freshen the silvery-crimson shells. 
And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells 
High over the full- toned sea : 
O hither, come hither and furl your sails. 
Come hither to me and to me : 
Hither, come hither and frolic and play ; 
Here it is only the mew that wails ; 
We will sing to you all the day : 
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, 
For here are the blissful downs and dales. 
And merrily, mei-rily carol the gales. 
And the spangle dances in bight and bay, 
And the rainbow forms and flies on the land 



24 THE DESERTED HOUSE. 

Over the islands free ; 

And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand ; 
Hither, come hither and see ; 
And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, 
And sweet is the color of cove and cave, 
And sweet shall your welcome be : 
O hither, come hither, and be our lords, 
For merry brides are we : 

We will kiss SAveet kisses, and speak sweet words : 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee : 
O listen, listeUj. your eyes shall glisten 
When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Who can light on as happy a shore 
All the world o'er, all the world o'er ? 

Whither away ? listen and stay : mariner, mariner, fly no 
more. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 

1. 
Life and Thought have gone away 
Side by side, 

Leaving door and windows wide : 
Careless tenants they ! 
2. 
All within is dark as night : 
In the windows is no light ; 
And no murmur at the door, 
So frequent on its hinge before. 

3. 
Close the door, the shutters close, 

Or thro' the windows we shall sec 
The nakedness and vacancy 
Of the dark deserted house. 

4. 
Come away : no more of mirth 

Is here or merry-making sound. 
The house was builded of the earth. 
And shall fall again to ground. 
5. 
Come away : for Life and Thought 
Here no longer dwell ; 
But in a city glorious — 



THE DYING SWAN. 25 

A great and distant city — have bought 
A mansion incorruptible. 

Would the}^ could have stayed with us ! 



THE DYING SWAN. 

1. 
The plain was grassy, wild, and bare, 
Wide, wild, and open to the air. 
Which had built up everywhere 

An imder-roof of doleful gray. 
With an inner voice the river ran, 
Adown it floated a dying swan, 
And loudly did lament. 

It was the middle of the day. 
Ever the weary wind went on, 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 
2. 
Some blue peaks in the distance rose, 
And white against the cold-white sky, 
Shone out their crowning snows, 

One wiUow over the river wept, 
And shook the wave as the wind did sigh ; 
Above in the wind was the swallow, 

Chasing itself at its own wild will. 

And far thro' the marish green and still 

The tangled water-courses slept. 
Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. 

o 
O. 

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul 

Of that waste place with joy 

Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear 

The warble was low, and full and clear ; 

And floating about the under-sky. 

Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole 

Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear ; 

But anon her awful jubilant voice, 

With a music strange and manifold, 

Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; 

As when a mighty people rejoice 

With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, 

And the tumult of their acclaim is roU'd 

Thro' the open gates of the city afar, 

To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. 



26 A DIRGE. 

And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds. 
And the willow-branches hoar and dank, 
And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, 
And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank. 
And the silvery marish-flowers that throrg 
The desolate creeks and pools among. 
Were flooded over with eddying song. 



A DIRGE. 

1. 

Now is done thy long day's work ; 
Fold thy palms across thy breast, 
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 

Let them rave. 
Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 
2. 
Thee nor carketh care nor slander ; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 
3. 
Thou wilt not turn ujDon thy bed ; 
Chanteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones than calumny ? 

Let them rave. 
Thou wilt never raise thine head 
From the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 
4. 
Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; 
The Avoodbine and eglatere 
Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 

Let them rave. 
Rain makes music in the tree 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 27 

5. 
Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, 
Bramble-roses, faint and pale, 
And long purples of the dale. 

Let them rave. 
These in every shower creep 
Thro' the green that folds thy grave. 
Let them rave. 
6. 
The gold-eyed kingcups fine ; 
The frail bluebell peereth over 
Rare broidry of the purple clover. 

Let them rave. 
Kings have no such couch as thine, 
As the green that folds thy grave. 
Let them rave. 
7. 
Wild words wander here and there : 
God's great gift of speech abused 
Makes thy memory confused : 
But let them rave. 
The balm-cricket carols clear 
In the green that folds thy grave. 
Let them rave. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 

What time the mighty moon was gathering light 

Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, 

And all about him roU'd his lustrous eyes ; 

When, turning round a cassia, full in view 

Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, 

And talking to himself, first met his sight : 

" You must begone," said Death, " these walks are mine." 

Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight ; 

Yet ere he parted said, " This hour is thine : 

Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree 

Stands In the sun and shadows all beneath, 

So in the light of great eternity 

Life eminent creates the shade of death ; 

The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall, 

But I shall reign forever over all." 




THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 

My heart is wasted with my woe, 

Oriana. 
There is no rest for me below^ 

Oriana. 
When the long dun wokls are rlbb'd with snow, 
And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone I wander to and fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere the light on dark was gi'owing, 

Oriana,, 
At midnight the cock was crowing, 

Oriana : 
Winds were blowing, waters flowing, 

the stee 

Oriana ; 
Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 

Oriana. 



In the yew-wood black as night, 

Oriana, 
Ere I rode into the fight, 

Oriana, 
While blissful tears blinded my sight 
By star-shine and by moonlight, 

Oriana. 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 29 

I to thee my troth did plight, 
Oriana. 

She stood upon the castle-wall, 

Oriana : 
She watch'd my crest among them all, 

Oriana : 
She saw me fight, she heard me call, 
When forth there stept a foeman tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween me and the castle-wall, 

Oriana. 

The bitter arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The false, false arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The damned arrow glanced aside. 
And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, 

Oriana ! 
Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, 

Oriana ! 

Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space, 

Oriana. 
Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh ! deathful stabs were dealt apace, 
The battle deepen'd in its place, 

Oriana ; 
But I was down upon my face, 

Oriana. 

They should have stabb'd me where I lay, 

Oriana ! 
How could I rise and come away, 

Oriana ? 
How could I look upon the day ? 
They should have stabb'd me where I lay, 

Oriana — 
They should have trod me into clay, 

Oriana. 

O breaking heart that will not break, 
Oriana ! 



30 THE BALLAD OF ORIAN^A. 

pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 

Oriana ! 
Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, 
And then the tears run down my cheek, 

Oriana : 
What wantest thou ? whom dost thou seek, 

Oriana ? 

1 cry aloud : none hear my cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou comest atween me and the skies, 

Oriana. 
I feel the tears of blood arise 
Up from my heart unto my eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within thy heart my arrow lies, 

Oriana. 

O cursed hand ! O cursed blow ! 
Oriana ! 

happy thou that liest low, 

Oriana ! 
All night the silence seems to flow 
Beside me in my utter woe, 

Oriana. 
A weary, weary way I go, 

Oriana. 

When Norland winds pipe down the sea, 
Oriana, 

1 walk, I dare not think of thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, 
I dare not die and come to thee, 

Oriana. 
I hear the roaring of the sea, 

Oriana. 



CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two children in two neighbor villages 
Playing mad pranks along the heathy leas ; 
Two strangers meeting at a festival ; 
Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall ; 



THE MERMAN. 31 

Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease ; 
Two graves grass-green beside a gray cliurcli-tower, 
Wash'd with still rains and daisy-blossomed ; 
Two children in one hamlet born and bred ; 
So runs the round of life from hour to hour. 



THE MERMAN. 

1. 

Who would be 
A merman bold, 
Sitting alone, 
Singing alone 
Under the sea, 
With a crown of gold, 
On a throne ? 
2. 
I would be a merman bold ; 
I would sit and sing the whole of the day ; 
I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power ; 
But at night I would roam abroad and play 
With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, 
Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower ; 
And holding them back by their flowing locks 
I would kiss them often under the sea. 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me 

Laughingly, laughingly ; 
And then we would wander away, away 
To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high. 
Chasing each other merrily. 
3. 
There would be neither moon nor star ; 
But the wave would make music above us afar — 
Low thunder and light in the magic night — 

Neither moon nor star. 
We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, 
Call to each other and whoop and cry 
All night, merrily, merrily ; 
They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells, 
Laughing and clapping their hands between. 

All night, merrily, merrily : 
But I would throw to them back in mine 
Turkis and agate and almondine : 
Then leaping out upon them unseen 
I would kiss them often under the sea. 



32 THE MERMAID. 

And kiss tliem again till they kiss'd me 

Laughingly, laughingly. 
Oh ! what a happy life were mine 
Under the hollow-hung ocean green I 
Soft are the moss-beds under the sea ; 
We would live merrily, merrily. 



^/ 



THE MERMAID. 

1. 
Who would be 
A mermaid fair. 
Singing alone, 
Combing her hair 
Under the sea, 
In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl. 
On a throne ? 
2. 
I would be a mermaid fair ; 
I would sing to myself the whole of the day ; 
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair ; 
And still as I comb'd I would sing and say, 
" Who is it loves me ? who loves not me ? " 
I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall, 

Low adown, low adown. 
From under my starry sea-bud crown 

Low adown and around. 
And I should look like a fountain of gold 
Springing alone 
With a shrill inner sound. 

Over the throne 
In the midst of the hall ; 
Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate 
With his large calm eyes for the love of me. 
And all the mermen under the sea 
Would feel their immortality 
Die in their hearts for the love of me. 

3. 
But at night I would wander away, away, 

I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks. 



SONNET TO J. M. K. 33 

And lightly vault from the throne and play 
With the mermen in and out of the rocks ; 

We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, 
On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells, 
Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. 

But if any came near I would call, and shriek, 

And adown the steep like a wave I would leap 
From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells ; 

For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list, 

Of the bold merry mermen under the sea ; 

They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, 

In the purple twilights under the sea ; 

But the king of them all would carry me, 

Woo me, and win me, and marry me, 

In the branching jaspers under the sea ; 

Then all the dry pied things that be 

In the hueless mosses under the sea 

Would curl round my silver feet silently. 

All looking up for the love of me. 

And if I should carol aloud, from aloft 

All things that are forked, and horned, and soft 

Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea, 

All looking down for the love of me. 



SONNET TO J. M. K. 

My hope and heart is with thee — thou wilt be 

A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest 

To scare chm-ch-harpies from the master's feast; 

Our dusted velvets have much need of thee : 

Thou art no Sabbath-drawler of old saws, 

Distill'd from some worm-canker'd homily ; 

But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy 

To embattail and to wall about thy cause 

With iron-worded proof, hating to hark 

The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone 

Half God's good Sabbath, while the worn-out clerk 

Browbeats his desk below. Thou from a throne 

Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark 

Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark. 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 

PART I. 

On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tower'd Camelot ; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below, 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver. 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro' the wave that runs forever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 
Overlook a sj)ace of flowers, 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veil'd. 
Slide the heavy barges trail'd 
By slow horses ; and unhail'd 
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot : 
But who hath seen her wave her hand ? 
Or at the casement seen her stand ? 
Or is she known in all the land. 

The Lady of Shalott ? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley. 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower'd Camelot : 
And by the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 
Listening, whispers, " 'T is the fairy 

Lady of Shalott." 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 35 

PART II. 

There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other care hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year. 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot : 
There the river-eddy whirls, 
And there the surly village-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market-girls. 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad. 
An abbot on an ambling pad, 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad. 
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad. 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot ; 
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two : 
She hath no loyal knight and true. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights. 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights, 

And music, went to Camelot : 
Or when the moon was overhead, 
Came two young lovers lately wed ; 
" I am half sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalott. 

PART III. 

A BOW-SHOT from her bower-eaves, 
He rode between the barley-sheaves, 



36 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 

The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A red-cross knight forever kneel'd 
To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkled on the yellow field. 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle giitter'd free. 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy, 
The bridle-bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot 
And from his blazon'd baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armor rung. 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather. 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burn'd like one burning flame together. 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
As often thro' the purple night, 
Below the stariy clusters bright, 
, Some bearded meteor, trailing light. 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd ; 
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode ; 
From underneath his helmet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
" Tirra lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the vv^eb, she left the loom. 
She made three paces thro' the room, 
She saw the water-lily bloom. 
She saw the helmet and the plume. 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
The mirror crack'd from side to side ; 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT 



37 



The curse is come upon me," crle<l 
The Lady of Shalott. 




PART IV. 
In the stormy east-wind straining, 
The pale yellow woods were waning, 
The broad stream in his banks complaining, 
Heavil}' tlie low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camelot ; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat. 
And round about the prow she wrote 

The Lady of Shalotl. 



38 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 

And down the river's dim expanse — 
Like some bold seer in a trance, 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day- 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay; 
The broad stream bore her far away. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among, 
They heard her singing her last song, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy. 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly. 
Till her blood was frozen slowly. 
And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side, 
Singing in her song she died. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony, 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by, 

Dead-pale between the houses high, 

Silent into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came. 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame. 
And round the prow they read her name, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this ? and what is here ? 
And in the lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer ; 
And they cross'd themselves for fear. 

All the knights at Camelot : 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 39 

But Lancelot mused a little space ; 
He said, " She has a lovely face ; 
God in his mercy lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalott.'' 



MARIAl^A IN THE SOUTH. 

With one black shadow at its feet, 

The house thro' all the level shines, 
Close-latticed to the brooding heat, 

And silent in its dusty vines : 
A faint-blue ridge upon the right, 
An empty river-bed before. 
And shallows on a distant shore. 
In glaring sand and inlets bright. 

But " Ave Mary," made she moan, 

And " Ave Mary," night and morn. 
And " Ah," she sang, " to be all alone. 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

She, as her carol sadder grew, 

From brow and bosom slowly down 
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest brown 
To left and right, and made appear, 
Still-lighted in a secret shrine. 
Her melancholy eyes divine, 
The home of woe without a tear. 

And "Ave Mary," was her moan, 

" Madonna, sad is night and morn ; " 
And "Ah," she sang, " to be all alone, 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

Till all the crimson changed, and past 

Into deep orange o'er the sea. 
Low on her knees herself she cast, 
Before Our Lady murmur'd she ; 
Complaining, " Mother, give me grace 
To help me of my weary load." 
And on the liquid mirror glow'd 
The clear perfection of her face. 

" Is this the form," she made her moan, 

" That won his praises night and morn ? 
And "Ah," she said, " but I wake alone, 
I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn. ' 



40 MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, 

Nor any cloud would cross the vault, 
But day increased from heat to heat. 

On stony drought and steaming salt ; 
Till now at noon she slept again, 

And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass, 
And heard her native breezes pass, 
And runlets babbling down the glen. 

She breathed in sleep a lower moan. 

And murmuring, as at night and morn, 
She thought, " My spirit is here alone. 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." 

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : 

She felt he was and was not there. 

She woke : the babble of the stream 

Fell, and, without, the steady glare 
Shrank one sick willow sear and small. 
The river-bed was dusty-white ; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 

She whisper'd, with a stifled moan 

More inward than at night or morn, 
" Sweet Mother, let me not here alone 
Live forgotten and die forlorn." 



Old letters, breathing of her worth, 
For " Love," they said, " must needs be true, 

To what is loveliest upon earth." 
An image seem'd to pass the door. 
To look at her with slight, and say, 
" But now thy beauty flows away. 
So be alone for evermore." 

" O cruel heart," she changed her tone, 
"And cruel love, whose end is scorn. 
Is this the end to be left alone, 

To live forgotten, and die forlorn ! " 

But sometimes in the falling day 
An image seem'd to pass the door. 

To look into her eyes and say, 

" But thou shalt be alone no more." 

And flaming downward over all 

From heat to heat the day decreased, 



ELEANORE. 41 

And slowly rounded to tlie east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 

" The day to night," she made her moan, 
" The day to night, the night to morn, 
And day and niglit I am left alone 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

At eve a dry cicala sung. 

There came a sound as of the sea ; 
Backward the lattice-blind she flung, 

And lean'd upon the balcony. 
There all in spaces rosy-bright 

Large Hesper giitter'd on her tears, 
And deepening thro' the silent spheres. 
Heaven over Heaven rose the night. 

And weeping then she made her moan, 

" The night comes on that knows not morn, 
When I shall cease to be all alone, 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 



ELEANORE. 

1. 
Thy dark eyes open'd not, 

Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air, 
For there is nothing here. 
Which, from the outward to the inward brought. 
Moulded thy baby thought. 
Far off from human neighborhood, 

Thou wert born, on a summer morn, 
A mile beneath the cedar-wood. 
Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd 

With breezes from our oaken glades. 
But thou wert nursed in some delicious land 

Of lavish lights, and floating shades : 
And flattering thy childish thought 

The oriental fairy brought, 
At the moment of thy birth, 
From old well-heads of haunted rills, 
And the hearts of purple hills, 

And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore, 
The choicest wealth of all the earth, 

Jewel or shell, or starry ore, 

To deck thy cradle, Eleanore. 



42 ELEANORE. 

2. 
Or the yellow-banded bees, 
Thro' half-open lattices 
Coming in the scented breeze, 

Fed thee, a child, lying alone. 

With whitest honey in fairy gardens cull'd 
A glorious child, dreaming alone, 
In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, 
With the hum of swarming bees 

Into dreamful slumber lull'd. 
3. 
Who may minister to thee ? 
Summer herself should minister 

To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded 
On golden salvers, or it may be, 
Youngest Autumn, in a bower 
Grape-thicken'd from the light, and blinded 

With many a deep-hued bell-like flower 
Of fragrant trailers, when the air 
Sleepeth over all the heaven. 
And the crag that fronts the Even, 
All along the shadowy shore, 
Crimsons over an inland mere, 
Eleanore ! 
4. 
How may full-sail'd verse express. 

How may measured words adore 
The full-flowing harmony 
Of thy swan-like stateliness, 
Eleanore ? 
The luxuriant symmetry 
Of thy floating gracefulness, 
Eleanore ? 
Every turn and glance of thine, 
Every lineament divine, 

Eleanore, 
And the steady sunset glow, 
That stays upon thee ? For in thee 

Is nothing sudden, nothing single ; 
Like two streams of incense free 

From one censer, in one shrine, 
Thought and motion mingle, 
Mingle ever. Motions flow 
To one another, even as tho' 
They were modulated so 

To an unheard melody, 



ELEANOKE. 43 

Which lives about thee, and a sweep 

Of richest pauses, evermore 
Drawn from each other mellow-deep ; 

Who may express thee, Eleanore ? 
5. 
I stand before thee, Eleanore ; 

I see thy beauty gradually unfold, 
Daily and hourly, more and more. 
I muse, as in a trance, the while 

Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, 
Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. 
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er 

The languors of thy love-deep eyes 
Float on to me. I would I were 

So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies. 
To stand apart, and to adore. 
Gazing on thee for evermore. 
Serene, imperial Eleanore ! 

6. 
Sometimes, with most intensity 
Gazing, I seem to see 

Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, 
Slowly awaken'd grow so full and deep 
In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quite, 
I cannot veil, or droop my sight. 
But am as nothing in its light : 
As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set, 
Ev'n while we gaze on it, 
Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow 
To a fiill face, there like a sun remain 
Fix'd — then as slowly fade again, 

And draw itself to what It was before ; 
So fall, so deep, so slow, 
Thought seems to come and go 

In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore. 
7. 
As thunder-clouds that, hung on high. 

Hoof 'd the world with doubt and fear, 
Floating thro' an evening atmosphere. 
Grow golden all about the sky ; 
In thee all passion becomes passionless, 
Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness, 
Losing his fire and active might 

In a silent meditation, 
Falling into a still delight, 



44 ELEANORE. 

And luxury of contemplation : 
As waves that up a quiet cove 
Rolling slide, and lying still 

Shadow forth the banks at will : 
Or sometimes they swell and move, 
Pressing up against the land, 
With motions of the outer sea : 
And the self-same influence 
Controlleth all the soul and sense 
Of Passion gazing upon thee. 
His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, 
Leaning his cheek upon his hand. 
Droops both his wings, regarding thee. 
And so would languish evermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore. 
8. 
But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined. 
While the amorous, odorous wind 

Breathes low between the sunset and the moon ; 
Or, in a shadowy saloon. 
On silken cushions half reclined ; 

I watch thy grace ; and in its place 
My heart a charmed slumber keeps. 

While I muse upon thy face ; 
And a languid fire creeps 

Thro' my veins to all my frame, 
Dissolvingly and slowly : soon 

From thy rose-red lips MY name 
Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon, 
With dinning sound my ears are rife. 
My tremulous tongue faltereth, 
I lose my color, I lose m}^ breath, 
I drink the cup of a costly death, 
Brimm'd with delix'ious draughts of warmest life. 
I die with my delight, before 

I hear what I would hear from thee ; 
Yet tell my name again to me, 
I would be dying evermore, 
So dying ever, Eleanore. 




THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 

I SEE the wealthy miller yet, 

His double chin, his portly size, 
And who that knew him could forget 

The busy wrinkles round his ejes V 
The slow wise smile that, round about 

His dusty forehead dryly curl'd, 
Seem'd half-within and half-without, 

And fuir of dealings with the world ? 

In yonder chair I see him sit, 

Three fingers round the old silver cup 
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 

At his own jest — gray eyes lit up 
With summer lightnings of a soul 

So full of summer warmth, so glad, 
So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, 

His memory scarce can make me sad. 

Yet fill ray glass : give me one kiss : 

My own sweet Alice, me must die. 
There's somewhat in this world amiss 

Shall be unriddled by-and-by. 
There 's somewhat flows to us in life, 

But more is taken quite away. 
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, 

That we may die the self-same day. 



46 TilE miller's DAUGHTEll. 

Have I not found a happy earth ? 

I least should breathe a thought of pain. 
Would God renew me from my birth 

I 'd almost live my life again. 
So sweet it seems with thee to walk, 

And once again to woo thee mine — 
It seems in after-dinner talk 

Across the walnuts and the wine — 

To be the long and listless boy 

Late-left an orphan of the squire, 
Where this old mansion mounted high 

Looks down upon the village spire : 
For even here, where I and you 

Have lived and loved alone so long, 
Each morn my sleep was broken thro' 

By some wild skylark's matin song. 

And oft I heard the tender dove 

In firry woodlands making moan : 
But ere I saw your eyes, my love, 

I had no motion of my own. 
For scarce my life with fancy play'd 

Before I dream'd that pleasant dream — 
Still hither thither idly sway'd 

Like those long mosses in the stream. 

Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear 

The milldam rushing down with noise. 
And see the minnows everywhere 

In crystal eddies glance and poise. 
The tall flag-flowers when they sprung 

Below the range of stepping-stones. 
Or those three chestnuts near, that hung 

In masses thick with milky cones. 

But, Alice, what an hour was that, 

When after roving in the woods, 
('T was April then,) I came and sat 

Below the chestnuts, when their buds 
Were glistening to the breezy blue ; 

And on the slope, an absent fool, 
I cast me down, nor thought of you, 

But angled in the higher pool. 



THE MILLER S DAUGHTER. 

A lore-song I had somewlicre read, 

An echo from a measured strain, 
Beat time to nothing in my head 

From some odd corner of tlie brain. 
It haunted me, the morning long, 

With, weary sameness in the rhymes, 
The phantom of a silent song. 

That went and came a thousand times. 

Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood 

I watch'd the little circles die ; 
They past into the level flood. 

And there a vision caught my eye ; 
The reflex of a beauteous form, 

A o-lowing arm, a oleamino; neck, 
As when a sunbeam wavers warm 

Within the dark and dimpled beck. 

For you remember, you had set, 

That morning, on the casement's edge 
A long green box of mignonette. 

And you were leaning from the ledge : 
And when I raised my eyes, above 

They met with two so full and bright — 
Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love. 

That these have never lost their light. 

I loved, and love dispell'd the fear 

That I should die an early death : 
For love possess'd the atmosphere. 

And fill'd the breast with purer breath. 
My mother thought, What ails the boy ? 

For I was alter'd, and began 
To move about the house with joy. 

And with the certain step of man. 

I loved the brimming wave that swam 

Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, 
The sleepy pool above the dam. 

The pool beneath it never still, 
The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor. 

The dark round of the dripping wheel. 
The very air about the door 

Made misty with the floating meal. 



48 THE miller's daughter. 

And oft in ramblings on the wold, 

When April nights began to blow, 
And April's crescent glimmer'd cold, 

I saw the village lights below ; 
I knew your taper far away. 

And full at heart of trembling hope, 
From off the wold I came, and lay 

Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. 

The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill ; 

And " by that lamp," I thought, " she sits ! ' 
The white chalk-quarry from the hill 

Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits. 
" that I were beside her now ! 

will she answer if I call ? 

O would she give me vow for vow, 
Sweet Alice, if I told her all ? " 

Sometimes I saw you sit and spin ; 

And, in the pauses of the wind, 
Sometimes I heard you sing Avithin ; 

Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind. 
At last you rose and moved the light, 

And the long shadow of the chair 
Flitted across into the night, 

And all the casement darken'd there. 

But when at last I dared to speak. 

The lanes, you know, were white with may, 
Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek 

Flush'd like the coming of the day ; 
And so it was — half-sly, half-shy. 

You would, and Avould not, little one ! 
Although I pleaded tenderly. 

And you and I were all alone. 

And slowly was my mother brought 

To yield consent to my desire : 
She wish'd me happy, but she thought 

1 might have look'd a little higher ; 
And I was young — too young to wed : 

" Yet must I love her for your sake ; 
Go fetch your Alice here," she said : 
Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. 



. THE miller's daughter. 49 

And down I went to fetch my bride : 

But, Alice, you were ill at ease ; 
This dress and that by turns you tried, 

Too fearful that you should not please. 
I loved you better for your fears, 

I knew you could not look but well ; 
And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, 

I kiss'd away before they fell. 

I watch'd the little flutterings, 

The doubt my mother would not see ; 
She spoke at large of many things, 

And at the last she spoke of me ; 
And turning look'd upon your face, 

As near this door you sat apart. 
And rose, and, with a silent grace 

Approaching, press'd you heart to heart. 

Ah, well — but sing the foolish song 

I gave you, Alice, on the day 
When, arm in arm, we went along, 

A pensive pair, and you were gay 
With bridal flowers — that I may seem. 

As in the nights of old, to lie 
Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, 

While those full chestnuts whisper by. 



It is the miller's daughter, 

And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
That I would be the jewel 

That trembles at her ear : 
For hid in ringlets day and night, 
I 'd touch her neck so Avarm and white. 

And I would be the girdle 

About her dainty dainty waist, 

And her heart would beat against me. 
In sorrow and in rest: 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I 'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace, 
And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom, 

With her laughter or her sighs. 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasp' d at night. 
4 



50 THE miller's daughter. 

A trifle, sweet ! whicli true love spells — 

True love interprets — right alone. 
His light upon the letter dwells, 

For all the spirit is his own. 
So, if I waste words now, in truth 

You must blame Love. His early rage 
Had force to make me rhyme in youth, 

And makes me talk too much in age. 

And now those vivid hours are gone. 

Like mine own life to me thou art, 
Where Past and Present, wound in one, 

Do make a garland for tlie heart : 
So sing that other song I made, 

Half-anger'd with my happy lot. 
The day, when in the chestnut-shade 

I found the blue Foroet-me-not. 



Love that hath us in the net, 
Can he pass, and we forget ? 
Many suns arise and set. 
Many a chance the years beget. 
Love the gift is Love the debt. 

Even so. 
Love is hurt Avith Jar and fi-et. 
Love is made a vague regret. 
Eyes with idle tears are wet. 
Idle habit hnks us yet. 
What is love ? for we forget : 

Ah, no ! no ! 



Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, 

Kound my true heart thine arms entwine ; 
My other dearer life in life. 

Look thro' my very soul with thine ! 
Untouch'd with any shade of years, 

May those kind eyes forever dwell ! 
They have not shed a many tears. 

Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. 

Yet tears they shed : they had their part 
Of sorrow : for when time was rij)e, 

The still affection of the heart 

Became an outward breathing type, 



THE MlLLEll's DAUGHTER. 51 

That into stillness past again. 

And left a want unknown before ; 
Although the loss that brought us pain, 

That loss but made us love the more, 

With farther looklngs on. The kiss, 

The woven arms, seem but to be 
Weak symbols of the settled bliss. 

The comfort, I have found in thee : 
But that God bless thee, dear — who wrouglit 

Two spirits to one equal mind — 
With blessings beyond hope or thought. 

With blessings which no words can find. 

Arise, and let us wander forth. 

To yon old mill across the wolds ; 
For look, the sunset, south and north, 

Winds all the vale in rosy folds, 
And fires your narrow casement glass, 

Touching the sullen pool below : 
On the chalic-hill the bearded grass 

Is dry and dewless. Let us go. 




FATIMA. 

O Love, Love, Love ! O withering iniglit ! 

sun, that from thy noonday height 
Shudderest when I strain my sight, 
Tiirobbing thro' all thy heat and light, 

Lo, falling from my constant mind, 

Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind, 

I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 

Last night I wasted hateful hours 
Below the city's eastern towers : 

1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers : 
I roU'd among the tender flowers : 

I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth : 
I look'd athwart the burning drouth 
Of that long desert to the south. 

Last night, when some one spoke his name, 
From my swift blood that went and came 
A thousand little shafts of flame 
Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. 
O Love, O fire ! once he drew 
With one long kiss my whole soul thro' 
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. 

Before he mounts the hill, I know 
He Cometh quickly : from below 
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow 
Before him, striking on my brow. 



53 



In my diy brain my spirit soon, 
Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, 
Faints like a dazzled morning moon. 

The wind sounds like a silver wire, 
And from beyond the noon a jSre 
Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher 
The skies stoop down in their desire ; 
And, isled in sudden seas of light. 
My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight, 
Bursts into blossom in his sight. 

My whole soul waiting silently. 

All naked in a sultry sky. 

Droops blinded with his shining eye : 

I will possess him or will die. 

I will grow round him in his place. 
Grow, live, die looking on his face, 
Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace. 




CENONE. 

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 

Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 

The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen, 

Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, 

And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 

The laAvns and meadow-ledges midway down 

Hang rich in floAvers, and far below them roars 

The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine 

In cataract after cataract to the sea. 

Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 

Stands up and takes the morning : but in front 

"^I'he gorges, opening Avide apart, reveal 

Troas and llion's column'd citadel, 

The croAvn of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 
Mournful (Enone, Avandering forlorn 
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. 
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck 
Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. 
She, leaning on a fragment twined Avith vine, 
Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade 
Sloped doAvnAvard to her seat from the upper cliflT. 



" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
For noAv the noonday quiet holds the hill : 
The grasshopper is silent in the grass : 
The lizard, Avith his sliadoAv on the stone, 



CENONE. 55 

Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps. 
The purple flowers droop : the golden bee 
Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. 
My eyes are lull of tears, my heart of love. 
My heart is breaking, and uiy eyes are dim, 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O Caves 
That house the cold crown'd snake ! mountain brooks, 
I am the daughter of a River- God, 
Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all 
My sorroAV with my song, as yonder walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 
A cloud that gather'd sliape : for it may be 
That, while I speak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 

'' O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
I waited underneath the dawning hills, 
Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark. 
And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine : 
Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 
Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hooved. 
Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 

" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Far off the torrent call'd me from the cleft : 
Far up the sohtary morning smote 
The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes 
I sat alone : white-breasted like a star 
Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard-skin 
Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair 
Cluster'd about his temples like a God's ; 
And his cheek brio-hten'd as the foam-bow brio^htens 
When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart 
AVent forth to embrace him coming ere he came. 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm 
Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold. 
That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd 
And listen'd, the full-flowing river of speech 



56 OENONE. 

Came down upon my heart. 

" ' My own (Enone, 
Beautiful-brow'd CEnone, my own soul, 
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav'n 
" For the most fair," would seem to award it thine, 
As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt 
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
Of movement, and the charm of married brows.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, 
And added, ' This was cast upon the board, 
When all the full-faced presence of the Gods 
Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; whereupon 
Rose feud, with question unto whom 't were due : 
But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, 
Delivering, that to me, by common voice, 
Elected umpire. Here comes to-day, 
Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave 
Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, 
Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard 
Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon : one silvery cloud 
Had lost his way between the piney sides 
Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, 
Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower. 
And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, 
Violet, amaracus, and asphodel. 
Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose. 
And overhead the wandering ivy and vine. 
This way and that, in many a wild festoon 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'. 

" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit. 
And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom 
Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows 
Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods 
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made 



57 



Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue 
Wherewith to embellish state, ' from many a vale 
And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn, 
Or labor'd mines undrainable of ore. 
Honor,' she said, ' and homage, tax and toll. 
From many an inland town and haven large, 
Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel 
In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' 

" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Still she spake on and still she spake of power, 
' Which in all action is the end of all ; 
Power fitted to the season ; wisdom-bred 
And throned of wisdom — from all neighbor crowns 
Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 
Fail fi'om the sceptre-staff. Such boon fi-om me, 
From me. Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, 
A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, 
Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power 
Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd 
Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 
Above the thunder, with undying bliss 
In knowledge of their own supremacy.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit 
Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power 
Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pallas Avhere she stood 
Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs 
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold. 
The while, above, her full and earnest eye 
Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 
Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. 

" ' Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, 
These three alone lead life to sovereign power. 
Yet not for power, (power of herself 
Would come uncall'd for,) but to live by law, 
Acting the law we live by without fear ; 
And, because right is right, to follow right 
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.' 

'* Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Again she said : ' I woo thee not with gifts. 



58 CENONE. 

Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Yet, indeed, 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, 
Unbias'd by self-profit, oh ! rest thee sure 
That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, 
So that my vigor, y^-edded to thy blood, 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, 
To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks. 
Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow 
Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown wiU, 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom.' 

" Here she ceased. 
And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, ' O Paris, 
Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me not. 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me ! 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, 
Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells. 
With rosy slender fingers backward drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair 
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat 
And shoulder : from the violets her light foot 
Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form 
Letween the shadows of the vine-bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. 

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes. 
The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh 
Half-whisper'd in his ear, ' I promise thee 
The fairest and most loving wife in Greece,' 
She spoke and laugh'd : I shut my sight for fear : 
But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, 
And I beheld great Here's angry eyes. 
As she withdrew into the golden cloud, 
And I was left alone within the bower ; 
And from that time to this I am alone. 
And I shall be alone until I die. 



59 



" Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Fairest — why fairest wife ? am I not fair ? 
My love hath told mc so a thousand times. 
Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday. 
When I past by, a wild and wanton pard. 
Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail 
Crouch'd fawnino- in the weed. Most lovino; is she V 
Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms 
Were wound about thee, and my hot lij^s prest 
Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew 
Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autmnn rains 
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
They came, they cut away my tallest pines, 
My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge 
High over the blue gorge, and ail between 
The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 
Foster'd the callow eaglet — from beneath 
Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn 
The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat 
Low in the valley. Never, never more 
Shall lone (Enone see the morning mist 
Sweep thro' them ; never see them overlaid 
With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud. 
Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds. 
Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, 
Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her. 
The Abominable, that uninvited came 
Into the fair Pelei'an banquet-hall. 
And cast the golden fruit upon the board, 
And bred this change ; that I might speak my mind, 
And tell her to her face how nuich I hate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, 
In this green valley, under this green hill, 
Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? 
Seal'd it with kisses ? water'd it with tears ? 
O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! 
O happy Heaven, how canst thou sec my face ? 



60 THE SISTERS. 

O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight ? 

death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud. 
There are enough unhappy on this earth, 

Pass by the happy souls, that love to live : 

1 pray thee, pass before my light of life. 
And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, 
Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me die. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
Do shape themselves within me, more and more, 
Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, 
Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother 
Conjectures of the features of her child 
Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder comes 
Across me : never child be born of me, 
Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes ! 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, 
Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me 
Walking the cold and starless road of Death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
With the Greek woman. I will rise and go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says 
A fire dances before her, and a sound 
Kings ever in her ears of armed men. 
What this may be I know not, but I know 
That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day, 
All earth and air seem only burning fire." 



THE SISTERS. 

We were two daughters of one race : 
She was the fairest in the face : 

The wind is bloAving in turret and tree. 
They were together, and she fell ; 
Therefore revenge became me well. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 



TO 61 

She died : she went to burning flame : 
She mix'd her ancient blood with shame. 

The wind is howling in turret and tree. 
Whole weeks and months, and early and late, 
To win his love I lay in wait : 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I made a feast ; I bade him come ; 
I won his love, I brought him home. 

The wind is roaring in turret and tree. 
And after supper, on a bed. 
Upon my lap he laid his head : 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I kiss'd his eyelids into rest : 
His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 

The wind is raging in turret and tree. 
I hated him with the hate of hell, 
But T loved his beauty passing well. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I rose up in the silent night : 

I made my dagger sharp and bright. 

The wind is raving in turret and tree. 
As half-asleep his breath he drew. 
Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro'. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I curl'd and comb'd his comely head, 
He look'd so grand when he was dead. 

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
I wrapt his body in the sheet, 
And laid him at his mother's feet. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 



TO 



WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. 



I SEND you here a sort of allegory, 
(For you will understand it,) of a soul, 
A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, 
A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, 
A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain. 



62 THE PALACE OF ART. 

That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seen 

In all varieties of mould and mind,) 

And Knowledge for its beauty ; or if Good, 

Good only for its beauty, seeing not 

That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge are three sisters 

That doat upon each other, friends to man, 

Living together under the same roof. 

And never can be sunder'd without tears. 

And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be 

Shut out from Love, and on her tlu:-eshold lie 

Howling in outer darkness. Not for this 

Was common clay ta'en from the common earth, 

Moulded by God, and temper'd with the tears 

Of angels to the perfect shape of man. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 

I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house, 

Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
I said, " O Soul, make merry and carouse, 
Dear soul, for all is well." 

A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass, 

I chose. The ranged ramparts bright 
From level meadow-bases of deep grass 
Suddenly scaled the light. 

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf 

The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 
My soul would live alone unto herself 
In her high palace there. 

And " while the world runs round and round," I said, 

" Reign thou apart, a quiet king, 
Still as, vfhile Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring." 

To which my soul made answer readily : 

" Trust me, in bhss I shall abide 
In this great mansion, that is built for me, 
So royal-rich and wide." 



THE PALACE OF ART. 63 



Four courts I made, East, West, and South and North, 

In each a squared lawn, wherefrom 
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth 
A flood of fountain-foam. 

And round the cool green courts there ran a row 

Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods, 
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow 
Of spouted fountain-floods. 

And round the roofs a gilded gallery 

That lent broad verge to distant lands, 
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky 
Dipt down to sea and sands. 

From those four jets four currents In one swell 

Across the mountain stream'd below 
In misty folds, that floating as they fell 
Lit up a torrent-bow. 

And high on every peak a statue seem'd 

To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 
A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd 
From out a golden cup. 

So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon 

My palace with unblinded eyes. 
While this great bow will waver in the sun, 
And that sweet incense rise ? " 

For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd. 

And, while day sank or mounted higher. 
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd. 
Burnt like a fringe of fire. 

Likewise the deep-set windoAvs, stain'd and traced, 

Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires 
From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced. 
And tipt with frost-like spires. 



64 THE PALACE OF ART, 

Full of long-sounding corridors it was, 

That over-vaulted grateful gloom, 
Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass, 
Well-pleased, from room to room. 

Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, 

All various, each a perfect whole 

From living Nature, fit for every mood 

And change of my still soul. 

For some were hung with arras green and blue, 

Showing a gaudy summer-morn, 
Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew 
His wreathed bugle-horn. 

One seeni'd all dark and red — a tract of sand. 

And some one pacing there alone, 
Who paced forever in a glimmering land, 
Lit with a low large moon. 

One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. 
You seem'd to hear them climb and fall 
And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves. 
Beneath the windy wall. 

And one, a full-fed river vdnding slow 

By herds upon an endless plain, 
The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, 
With shadovz-streaks of rain. 

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. 

In fi-ont they bound the sheaves. Behind 
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil. 
And hoary to the wind. 

And one, a foreground black with stones and slags. 

Beyond, a line of heights, and higher 
All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags, 
And highest, snow and fire. 

And one, an English home — gray twilight pour'd 

On dewy pastures, dewy trees, 
Softer than sleep — all things in order stored, 
A haunt of ancient Peace, 



THK PALACE OF ART. 



65 



Xor these alone, but every landscape fair, 

As fit for every mood of mind, 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, Avas there. 
Not less than truth desiiru'd. 




Or the maid-motlier by a crucifix, 

In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, 
]}cneath branch-work of costly sardonA'x 
Sat smiling, babe in arm. 

Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea, 
Near gilded organ-pi})es, her hair 
Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily 
An anoel look'd at her. 



Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, 

A group of Ilouris bow'd to see 
Tlie dvino- Islamite, with hands and eyes 
TUixt said, V\\i wait for thee. 



66 THE PALACE OF ART. 

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son 
In some fair space of sloping greens 
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 

And watch'd by weeping queens. 

Or hollowing one hand against his ear, 

To list a footfall, ere he saw 
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear 
Of wisdom and of law. 

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, 
And many a tract of palm and rice, 
The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd 
A summer fann'd with spice. 

Or sweet Europa's mantle blue unclasp'd, 

From off her shoulder backward borne : 
From one hand droop'd a crocus : one hand grasp'd 
The mild bull's golden horn. 

Or else flushed Ganymede, his rosy thigh 

Half-buried in the Eagle's down. 
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky 
Above the pillar'd town. 

Nor these alone : but every legend fair 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Carved out of Nature for itself, was there, 
Not less than life, design'd. 



Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung, 

Mov'd of themselves, with silver sound ; 
And with choice paintings of wise men I hung 
The royal dais round. 

For there was Milton like a seraph strong, 
Beside him Shakspeare bland and mild ; 
And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song, 
And somewhat grimly smiled. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 67 

And there the Ionian father of the rest ; 

A million wrinkles carved his skin ; 
A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast, 
From cheek and throat and chin. 

Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set 

Many an arch high up did lift, 
And angels rising and descending met 
With interchange of gift. 

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd 

With cycles of the human tale 
Of this wide world, the times of every land 
So- wrought, they will not fail. 

The people here, a beast of burden slow, 

Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings ; 
Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro 
The heads and crowns of kings ; 

Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind 

All force in bonds that might endure. 
And here once more like some sick man declined. 
And trusted any cure. 

But over these she trod : and those great bells 

Began to chime. She took her throne : 
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 

And thro' the topmost Oriels' color'd flame 

Two godlike faces gazed below ; 
Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam, 
The first of those who know. 

And all those names, that in their motion were 

Full-wellino; fountain-heads of chano;e, 
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair 
In diverse raiment strange: 

Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue, 

Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, 
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew 
Rivers of melodies. 



G8 THE PALACE OF ART. 

No nightingale deligliteth to prolong 

Her low preamble all alone, 
More than my soul to liear her echo'd song 
Throb thro' the ribbed stone ; 

Sinsrino; and murrnin^ing in her feastful mirth, 

Joying to feel herself alive, 
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth. 
Lord of the senses five ; 

Communing with herself: "All these are mine, 

And let the world have peace or wars, 
'T is one to me." She — when yonng night divine 
Crown'd dying day with stars, 

Making sweet close of hie delicious toils — 

Lit light in wreaths and anadems, 
And pure quintessences of precious oils 
Li hollow'd moons of gems, 

To mimic heaven ; and clapt her hands and cried, 

"I marvel if my still delight 
In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, 
Be flatter'd to the height. 

" O all things fair to sate my various eyes ! 

shapes and hues that please me well ! 
O silent faces of the Great and Wise, 

My Gods, with whom I dwell ! 

" O God-like isolation Avhich art mine, 

1 can but count thee perfect gain. 

What time I watch the darkening droves of swine 
That range on yonder plain. 

" In fdthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, . 
They graze and wallow, breed and sleep ; 
And oft some brainless devil enters in. 
And drives them to the deep." 

Then of the moral instinct would slie prate. 

And of tlie rising fi-om the dead. 
As hers by riglit of full-accomplisli'd Fate ; 
And at the last she said : 



THE PALACE OF ART. 69 

" I take possession of man's mind and deed. 

I care not what the sects may brawl. 
I sit as God holding no form of creed, 
But contemplating all." 



^uU ofb the riddle of the painful earth 

Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone, 
Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth, 
And intellectual throne. 

And so she throve and prosper'd : so three years 

She prosper'd : on the fourth she fell. 
Like Ilerod, when the shout was in his ears, 
Struck thro' with pangs of hell. 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 

God, before whom ever lie bare 
The abysmal deeps of Personality, 
Plagued her with sore despair. 

When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight 

The airy hand confusion wrought. 
Wrote " Mene, mene," and divided quite 
The kino-dom of her thouoht. 

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude 

Fell on her, from which mood Avas born 
Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood 
Laughter at her self-scorn. 

" What ! is not this my place of strength," she said, 

" My spacious mansion built for me. 
Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid 
Since my first memory "^ " 

But in dark corners of her palace stood 

Uncertain shapes ; and unawares 
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood. 
And horrible nio-htmares, 



70 THE PALACE OF ART. 

,And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, 

And, with dim fretted foreheads all, . 
On corpses three-months-old at noon she came, 
That stood against the wall. 

A spot of dull stagnation, without light 

Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, 
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
Making for one sure goal. 

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand ; 

Left on the shore; that hears. all night 
The plunging seas draw backward from the land 
Their moon-led waters white. 

A star that with the choral starry dance 

Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw 
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance 
Eoll'd round by one fix'd law. 

Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd. 
" No voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall, 
" No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world : 
One deep, deep silence all ! " 

She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod, 

Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame. 
Lay there exiled from eternal God, 
Lost to her place and name 5 

And death and life she hated equally. 

And nothing saw, for her despair. 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, 
No comfort anywhere ; 

Remaining utterly confused with fears, ' 

And ever worse with growing time. 
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears. 
And all alone in crime : 

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round 

With blackness as a solid wall, 
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound 
Of human footsteps fall. 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 71 

As In strange lands a traveller walking slow, 

In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moon-rise hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea ; 

And knows not if it be thunder t)r a sound 
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry 
Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, ^ I have found 
A new land, but I die." 

She howl'd aloud, " I am on fire within. 

There comes no murmur of rej)ly. 
What is it that will take away my sin, 
And save me lest I die ? " 

So when four years were wholly finished. 

She threw her royal robes away. 
" Make me a cottage in the vale," she said, 
" Where I may mourn and pray. 

" Yet pull not down my palace-towers, that are 

So lightly, beautifully built : 
Perchance I may return with others there 
When I have purged my guilt." 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown : 
You thought to break a country heart 

For pastime, ere you went to town. 
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 

I saw the snare, and I retired : 
The daughter of a hundred Earls, 

You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your name, 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine, 

Too proud to care from whence I came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet sake 

A heart that doats on truer charms. 
( A simple maiden in her flower 

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.j 



72 LADY CLAKA VERE DE VERE. 

Ladj Clara Yere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find, 
For Avere you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love, 

And niy disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my head. 
Not thrice your branching limes have blown 

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 
Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies : 

A great enchantress you may be ; 
But there was that across his throat 

Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's view, 
She had the passions of her kind, 

She spake some certain truths of you. 
Indeed I heard one bitter word 

That scarce is fit for you to hear ; 
Her manners had not that repose 

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall : 
The guilt of blood is at your door : 

You changed a wholesome heart to gall. 
You held your course without remorse. 

To make him trust his modest worth, 
And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare. 

And slew him with your noble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heavens above us bent 
The grand old gardener and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 

'T is only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets. 

And simple faith than Norman blood. 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 73 

J know you, Clara Vere de Vere : 

You pine among your halls and towers : 
The languid light of your proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In gloAving health, with boundless wealth, 

But sickening of a vague disease, 
You know so ill to deal with time, 

You needs must play such pranks as these. 

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If Time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate, 

Nor any poor about your lands ? 
Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read, 

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, 
Pray Heaven for a human heart. 

And let the foolish yeoman go. 




THE MAY QUEEN. 

You must wake and call uie early, call me early, mother 

dear ; 
I'o-morrow 'ill be the haj)i)iest time of all the glad New- 

}'ear ; 
Of all the glad New-vear, mothei-, the maddest merriest 

Jay; 
For I 'in to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 

o' the May. 

There 's many a black black eye, they say, but none so 

bright as mine ; 
Tiiere 's Margaret and Mary, there 's Kate and Caroline : 
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, 
So I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 

o' the INIay. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, 
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : 
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands 

For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 
o' the Mav. 



As I came up the valley whom think }e should f see, 
. But llobin leaning on the ])ridge beneath the hazel-tree ? 

He thought of that shai-p look, motlier, T gave him yester- 
day, — 

But I 'm to lie Queen o' the May, mother, 1 'm to l>e Queen 
o" the IMav. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 75 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say. 
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 
o' the May. 

They say he 's dying all for love, but that can never be : 
They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to 

me ? 
There 's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, 
And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 

o' the May. 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green. 
And you '11 be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen; 
For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away. 
And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 
o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, 

And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo- 
flowers ; 

And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and 
hollows gray, 

And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 
o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow- 
grass, 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they 



There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day. 
And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 1 'm to be Queen 
o' the May. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, 
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, 
And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and 

play, 
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 

o' the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother 
dear, 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New- 
year : 



76 new-year's eve. 

To-morrow 'ill be of all the year tlie maddest merriest day, 
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen 
o' the May. 



NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 

If you 're waking, call me early, call me early, mother 

dear, 
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. 
It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, 
Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more 

of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind 

'The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of 

mind ; 
And the New-year 's coming up, mother, but I shall never 

see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry 
day ; 

Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen 
of May ; 

And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, 

Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney- 
tops. 

There 's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the 

pane : 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : 
I Avish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, 

And the tufted plover pij)e along the fallow lea, 

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the 

wave. 
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine. 
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine. 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill; 
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is 
still. 



new-year's eve. 77 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning 

light 
You '11 never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in 

the pool. 

You '11 bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn 

shade, 
And you '11 come sometimes and see me where I am lowly 

laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you 

pass. 
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant 

grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you '11 forgive me now ; 
You '11 kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be Avild, 
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. 

If I can I '11 come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; 
Tho' you '11 not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; 
Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, 
And be often, often with you when you think I 'm far away. 

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for 

evermore, 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door ; 
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing 

green : 
She 11 be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

She '11 find my garden-tools upon the granary-floor : 

Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden 

more : 
But tell her, when I 'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I 

set 
About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette. 

Good-night, sweet mother : call me before the day is born. 
All night I lay awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
So, if you 're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 



CONCLUSION. 

I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; 
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. 
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! 
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet 's here. 

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot 

rise. 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that 

blow. 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun. 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of 
peace. 

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! 
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me 

there ! 
O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. 
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there 's One will let 

me in : 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again if that could be, 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 



CONCLUSION. 79 

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch 

beat. 
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning 

meet : 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 

AJl in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; 

It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over 

all; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. 

For Ipng broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 
With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt re- 

sign'd, 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wnnd. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, 

And then did something speak to me — I know not Avhat 

was said ; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, 
And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 

But you were sleeping ; and I said, " It 's not for them, it 's 

mine.'' 
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, 
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the 

stars. 

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; 
There 's many w^orthier than I, would make him happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his 

wife ; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 

O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; 
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 



80 THE LOTUS-EATERS. 

And there I move no longer now, and there his light may 

shine — 
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is 

done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — 
Forever and forever with those just souls and true — 
And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we 

such ado ? 

Forever and forever, all in a blessed home — 
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — 
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — 
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at 
rest. 



THE LOTUS-EATERS. 

" Courage ! " he said, and pointed toward the land, 
" This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." 
In the afternoon they came unto a land, 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; 
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. 

A land of streams ! some, like a downward smoke, 

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ; 

And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, 

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 

From the inner land : far off, three mountain-tops. 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow. 

Stood sunset-flush'd : and, dew'd with showery drops, 

Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. 

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 
In the red West : thro' mountain clefts the dale 
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 
Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale 



THE LOTUS-EATERS. 81 

And meadow, set with slender gallngale ; 

A land where all things ahva}S seem'd the same ! 

And round about the keel with faces pale, 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. 

The mild-eyed melancholy Lotus-eaters came. 

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 
To each, but whoso did receiv^e of them. 
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave 
On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake, 
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; 
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, 
And music in his ears his beating heart did make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow sand, 
Between the sun and moon upon the shore ; 
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
Of child, and wife, and slave ; but evermore 
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar. 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, " We will return no more ; " 
And all at once they sang, " Our island home 
Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam." 

CHOKIC SONG. 

1. 
There is sweet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 
Or night-dews on still waters between walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; 
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, 
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes ; 

Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep. 
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. 

2. 
^Yhy are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, 
And utterly consumed with sharp distress, 
While all things else have rest from weariness ? 
All things have rest : why should we toil alone. 
6 



82 THE LOTUS-EATERS. 

We only toil, who are the first of things, 

And make perpetual moan, 

Still fi-om one sorrow to another thrown : 

Nor ever fold our wings, 

And cease from wanderings, 

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ; 

Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, 

" There is no joy but calm ! " 

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things ? 

3. 
Lo ! in the middle of the wood, 
The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud 
With winds upon the branch, and there 
Grows green and broad, and takes no care, 
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 
Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 
Falls, and floats adown the air. 
Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer light. 
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, 
Drops in a silent autumn night. 
All its allotted length of days, 
The flower ripens in its place, 
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, 
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 

4. 
Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 
Death is the end of life ; ah, why 
Should life all labor be ? 
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast. 
And in a little while our lips are dumb. 
Let us alone. What is it that will last ? 
All things are taken from us, and become 
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. 
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 
To war with evil ? Is there any peace 
In ever climbing up the climbing wave ? 
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave 
In silence ] ripen, fall, and cease : 
Grive us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. 

5. 
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream. 
With half-shut eyes ever to seem 
Falling asleep in a half-dream ! 
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, 



THE LOTUS-EATERS. 83 

Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height ; 

To hear each other's whisper'd speech ; 

Eating the Lotus day by day, 

To watch the crisping ripj)les on the beach, 

And tender curving lines of creamy spray ; 

To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 

To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; 

To muse and brood and live again in memory, 

With those old faces of our infancy 

Heap'd over with a mound of grass, 

Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass ! 

6. 
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives. 
And dear the last embraces of our wives 
And their warm tears : but all hath sufFer'd change ; 
For surely now our household hearths are cold : 
Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange : 
And we should come hke ghosts to trouble joy. 
Or else the island princes over-bold 
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings 
Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, 
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. 
Is there confusion in the little isle ? 
Let what is broken so remain. 
The Gods are hard to reconcile : 
'T is hard to settle order once again. 
There is confusion worse than death, 
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 
Long labor unto aged breath. 
Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars 
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. 

7. 
But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, 
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) 
With half-dropt eyelids still. 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy. 
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly 
His waters from the purple hill — 
To hear the dewy echoes calhng 
From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine — 
To watch the emerald-color'd water falling 
Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine ! 
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine. 
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine. 



84 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



The Lotus blooms below the barren peak : 

The Lotus blows by every winding creek : 

All day the Avind breathes low with mellower tone : 

Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 

Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotus-dust Is 

blown. 
We have had enough of action, and of motion we, 
Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was 

seething free. 
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains 

in the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind. 
In the hollow Lotus-land to live and lie reclined 
On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. 
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd 
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly 

curl'd 
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world : 
Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands. 
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps 

and fier}^ sands. 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and 

praying hands. 
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, 
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong ; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest wi,th enduring toil, 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil ; 
Till they perish and they suffer — some, 'tis whisper'd — 

down in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell. 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar ; 
O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. 

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

I READ, before my eyelids dropt their shade, 
" The Legend of Good Women" long ago 

Sung by the morning-star of song, who made 
His music heard below ; 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN". 85 

Dan Cljaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath 
Preluded those melodious bursts, that fill 

The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
With sounds that echo still. 

And, for a while, the knowledge of his art 

Held me above the subject, as strong gales 

Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my heart, 
Brimful of those wild tales, 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. In. every land 

I saw, wherever light illumineth, 
Beauty and anguish Avalking hand in hand 

The downward slope to death. 

Those far-renowned brides of ancient song 

Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars, 

And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong, 
And trumpets blown for wars ; 

And clattering flints batter'd with clanging hoofs : 
And I saw crowds in column'd sanctuaries ; 

And forms that pass'd at windows and on roofs 
Of marble palaces ; 

Corpses across the threshold ; heroes tall 

Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 
Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall ; 

Lances in ambush set ; 

And high shrine-doors burst thro' with heated blasts 
That run before the fluttering tongues of fire ; 

White surf wind-scatter'd over sails and masts. 
And ever climbing higher ; 

Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates, 
Scaffblds, still sheets of water, divers woes, 

Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates. 
And hush'd seraglios. 

So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land 

Bluster the winds and tides the self-same way, 

Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand, 
Torn from the fringe of spray. 



86 A DREAM OF FAIK WOMEN. 

I started once, or seem'd to start in pain, 

Resolved on noble things, and strove to spesik, 

As when a great thought strikes along the brain. 
And flushes all the cheek. 

And once my arm was Hfted to hew down 

A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, 
That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town ; 

And then, I know not how. 

All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing thought 

Stream'd onward, lost their edges, and did creep 

RoU'd on each other, rounded, smooth'd, and brought 
Into the gulfs of sleep. 

At last methought that I had wander'd far 

In an old wood : fresh-wash'd in coolest dew, 

The maiden splendors of the morning star 
Shook in the steadfast blue. 

Enormous elmtree-boles did stoop and lean 
Upon the dusky brushwood underneath 

Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green, 
New from its sillcen sheath. 

The dim red morn Jiad died, her journey done. 

And with dead lips smiled at the twiUght plain, 

Half-faU'n across the threshold of the sun, 
Never to rise again. 

There was no motion in the dumb dead air, 
Not any song of bird or sound of rill ; 

Gross darkness of the iimer sepulchre 
Is not so deadly still 

As that wide forest: Growths of jasmine turn'd 
Their humid arms festooning tree to tree, 

And at the root thro' lush green grasses burn'd 
The red anemone. 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I kiiew 
The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn 

On those long, rank, dark wood-walks drench'd in dew, 
Leading from lawn to lawn. 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 87 

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, 

Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame 

The times when I remember to have been 
Joyful and free fi^om blame. 

And from within me a clear undertone 

Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that unblissful clime, 

" Pass freely thro' : the wood is all thine own, 
Until the end of time." 

At length I saw a lady within call. 

Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing there ; 
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 

And most divinely fair. 

Her loveliness with shame and with surprise 

Froze my swift speech : she turning on my face 

The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, 
Spoke slowly in her place. 

" I had great beauty : ask thou not my name : 
No one can be more wise than destiny. 

Many drew swords and died. Where'er I came 
I brought calamity." 

" No marvel, sovereign lady : in fair field 

Myself for such a face had boldly died," 

I answer'd free; and turning I appeal'd 
To one that stood beside. 

But she, with sick and scornful looks averse. 

To her full height her stately stature draws ; 

" My youth," she said, " was blasted with a curse : 
This woman was the cause. 

" I was cut off from hope in that sad place. 

Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears : 
My father held his hand upon his face ; 
I, blinded with my tears, 

" Still strove to speak : my voice was thick with sighs 
As in a dream. Dimly I could descry 

The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes, 
Waiting to see me die. 



88 A DREAM or FAIR WOMEIST. 

" The high masts flicker'd as they lay afloat ; 

The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and the shore ; 
The bright death quiver'd at the victim's throat ; 

Touch'd ; and I knew no more." 

Whereto the other with a downward brow : 

" I would the wdiite cold heavy-plunging foam, 

Whirl'd by the wind, had roll'd me deep below, 
Then when I left my home." 

Her slow full words sank thro' the silence drear. 
As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea : 

Sudden I heard a voice that cried, " Come here, 
That I may look on thee." 

I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise. 

One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll'd ; 

A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes, 
Brow-bound with burning gold. 

She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began . 

" I govern'd men by change, and so I sway'd 
All moods. 'T is long since I have seen a man. 

Once, like the moon, I made 

" The ever-shifting currents of the blood 
According to my humor ebb and flow. 

I have no men to govern in this wood : 
That makes my only woe. 

" Nay — yet it chafes me that I could not bend 
One will ; nor tame and tutor with mine eye 

That dull cold-blooded Cassar. Prythee, friend, 
Where is Mark Antony ? 

" The man, my lover, with whom I rode sublime 
On Fortune's neck : we sat as God by God : 

The Nilus would have risen before his time 
And flooded at our nod. 

" We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit 

Lamps which outburn'd Canopus. O my life 

In Egypt ! O the dalliance and the wit, 
The flattery and the strife, 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 89 

"And the Avild kiss, when fresh from war's alarms, 

My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 
My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms, 

Contented there to die ! 

"And there he died : and when I heard my name 

Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook my fear 

Of the other : with a Avorm I balk'd his ftime. 
What else was left ? look here ! " 

(With that she tore her robe apart, and half 
The polish'd argent of her breast to sight 

Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh. 
Showing the aspi^k's bite) 

" I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found 
Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, 

A name forever ! — lying robed and crown'd. 
Worthy a Roman spouse." 

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range 

Struck by all passion, did fall down and glance 

From tone to tone, and glided thro' all change 
Of liveliest utterance. 

When she made pause I knew not for delight ; 

Because with sudden motion from the ground 
She raised her piercing orbs, and fill'd with light 

The interval of sound. 

Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest darts ; 

As once they drew into two burning rings 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts 

Of captains and of kings. 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard 

A noise of some one coming thro' the lawn. 

And singing clearer than the crested bird, 
That claps his wings at dawn. 

" The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel 

From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, 

Sound all night long, in falling thro' the dell. 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 



90 



A D15KAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



mi 




" The balmy moon of blessed Israel 

Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams divuie 
All night the splintered crags that wall the dell 

With spires of silver shine." 

As one that museth where broad sunshine laves 
The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the door 

Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor 



Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd and tied 

To where he stands, — so stood T, when that flow 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 91 

Of music left the lips of her that died 
To save her father's vow ; 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, 

A maiden pure ; as when she went along 
From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome h'ght, 

With timbrel and with song. ""^'^^ 

My words leapt forth : " Heaven heads the count of crimes * . ■** ". 

With that wild oath." She render'd answer high : 
'' Not so, nor once alone ; a thousand times 

I would be born and die. 

" Single I grew, like some green j)lant, whose root 

Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath. 
Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower to fruit 

Changed, I was ripe for death. 

" My God, my land, my father — these did move 

Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, 
Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of love 

Down to a silent grave. 

"And I went mourning, ' No fair Hebrew boy 

Shall smile away my maiden blame among 
The Hebrew mothers ' — emptied of all joy, 

Leaving the dance and song, 

" Leaving the olive-gardens far below. 

Leaving the promise of my bridal bower. 
The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow 

Beneath the battled tower. 

" The light white cloud swam over us. Anon 

We heard the lion roaring from his den ; 
We saw the large white stars rise one by one, 

Or, from the darken'd glen, 

" Saw God divide the night with flying flame. 

And thunder on the everlasting hills. 
I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became 

A solemn scorn of ills. 

" When the next moon was roll'd into the sky, 

Strength came to me that equall'd my desire. 



92 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

How beautiful a thing it was to die * 
For God and for my sire ! 

" It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, 
That I subdued me to my father's will ; 

Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell, 
Sweetens the spirit still. 

" Moreover it is written that my race 

Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer 

On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face 
Glow'd, as I look'd at her. 

She lock'd her lips : she left me where I stood : 
" Glory to God," she sang, and past afar, 

Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, 
Toward the morning-star. 

Losing her carol I stood pensively, 

As one that from a casement leans his head, 
When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly, 

And the old year is dead. 

"Alas ! alas ! " a low voice, full of care, 

■Murmur'd beside me : " Turn and look on me : 

I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, 
K what I was I be. 

" Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor ! 

O me, that I should ever see the light ! 
Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor 

Do hunt me, day and night." 

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust : 

To whom the Egyptian : " O, you tamely died ! 

You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and thrust 
The dagger thro' her side." 

With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beams, 
Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mystery 

Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams 
Ruled in the eastern sky. 

Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark, 

Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance 



MARGARET. 93 

Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of Arc, 
A light of ancient France ; 

Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, 
Who kneeling, with one arm about her king. 

Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, 
Sweet as new buds in Spring. 

No memory labors longer from the deep 

Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore 

That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep 
To gather and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain 
Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike 

Into that wondrous track of dreams again ! 
But no two dreams are like. 

As when a soul laments, which hath been blest. 
Desiring what is mingled with past years, 

In yearnings that can never be exprest 
By sighs or groans or tears ; 

Because all words, tho' cuU'd with choicest art, 
Failing to give the bitter of the sweet. 

Wither beneath the palate, and the heart 
Faints, faded by its heat. 



MAEGARET. 

1. 

O SWEET pale Margaret, 

O rare pale Margaret, 
What lit your eyes with tearful power. 
Like moonlight on a falling shower ? 
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower 

Of pensive thought and aspect pale, 

Your melancholy sweet and frail 
As perfume of the cuckoo-flower ? 
From the westward-winding flood. 
From the evening-lighted wood. 

From all things outward you have won 
A tearful grace, as tho' you^ stood 

Between the rainbow and the sun. 



94 MARGARET. 

The very smile before you speak, 
That dimples your transparent cheek, 
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth 
The senses with a still delight 

Of dainty sorrow without sound, 

Like the tender amber round, 
Which the moon about her spreadeth, 
Moving thro' a fleecy night. 

2. 
You love, remaining peacefully, 

To hear the murmur of the strife, 

But enter not the toil of life. 
Your spirit is the calmed sea, 

Laid by the tumult of the fight. 
You are the evening star, alway 

Remaining betwixt dark and bright : 
Lull'd echoes of laborious day 

Come to you, gleams of mellow light 

Float by you on the verge of night. 
3. 
What can it matter, Margaret, 

What songs below the waning stars 
The lion-heart, Plantagenet, 

Sang looking thro' his prison-bars ? 
Exquisite Margaret, who can tell 
The last wild thought of Chatelet, 

Just ere the falling axe did part 

The burning brain from the true heart, 
Even in her sight he loved so well ? 
4. 
A fairy shield your Genius made 

And gave you on your natal day. 
Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade. 

Keeps real sorrow far away. 
You move not in such solitudes, 

You are not less divine, 
But more human in your moods. 

Than your twin-sister, Adeline. 
Your hair is darker, and your eyes 

Touch'd with a somewhat darker hue, 

And less aerially blue, 

But ever trembhng thro' the dew 
Of dainty-woful sympathies. 
5. 

O sweet pale Margaret, 

O rare pale Margaret, 



THE BLACKBIRD. 95 

Come doTvn, come down, and hear me speak : 
Tie up the rlngiets on your cheek : 

The sun is just about to set, 
The arching limes are tall and shady, 
And faint, rainy lights are seen, 
Moving in the leafy beech. 
Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, 

Where all day long you sit between 
Joy and woe, and whisper each. 
Or only look across the lawn, 

Look out below your bower-eaves, 
Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn 
Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. 



THE BLACKBIRD. 

O Blackbird ! sing me something well : 
While all the neighbors shoot thee round, 
I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground. 

Where thou may'st warble, eat, and dwell. 

The espaliers and the standards all 

Ai-e thine ; the range of lawn and park : 
The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, 

All thine, against the garden-wall. 

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, 
Thy sole delight is, sitting still, 
With that cold dagger of thy bill 

To fret the summer jenneting. 

A golden biU ! the silver tongue. 

Cold February loved, is dry : 

Plenty corrupts the melody 
That made thee famous once, when young : 

And in the sultry garden-squares. 

Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, 
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 

As when a hawker hawks his wares. 

Take warning ! he that will not sing 
While yon sun prospers in the blue, 
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, 

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
And the winter winds are wearily sighing : 
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low, 
For the old year lies a-dying. 

Old year, you niust not die : 

You came to us so readily. 

You lived with us so steadily, 

Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still : he doth not move : 

He will not see the dawn of day. 

He hath no other life above. 

He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, 

And the New-year will take 'em away. 

Old year, you must not go; 

So long as you have been with us, 

Such joy as you have seen with us, 

Old year, you shall not go. 

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim ; 
A jollier year we shall not see. 
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim. 
And tho' his foes speak ill of him. 
He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die ; 

We did so laugh and cry with you, 

I 've half a mind to die with you, 

Old year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest. 
But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
But he '11 be dead before. 

Every one for his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my friend. 

And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend. 

Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes ! over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 



TO J. s. 97 

The shadows flicker to and fro : 

The cricket chirps : the light burns low : 

'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands, before you die. 

Old year, we 'U dearly rue for you : 

What is it we can do for you ? 

Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack ! our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone, 

And waiteth at the door. 

There 's a new foot on the floor, my friend, 

And a new face at the door, my friend, 

A new face at the door. 



TO J. S. 

The wind, that beats the mountain, blows 
More softly round the open wold. 

And gently comes the world to those 
That are cast in gentle mould. 

And me this knowledge bolder made, 
Or else I had not dared to flow 

In these words toward you, and invade 
Even with a verse your holy woe. 

'T is strange that those we lean on most, 

Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, 

Fall into shadow, soonest lost : 

Those we love first are taken first. 

God gives us love. Something to love 

He lends us ; but, when love is grown 

To ripeness, that on which it throve 
Falls off, and love is left alone. 

This is the curse of time. Alas ! 

In grief I am not all unlearn'd ; 
Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass ; 

One went, who never hath return'd. 



98 TO J. s. 

He will not smile — not speak to me 

Once more. Two years his chair is seen 

Empty before us. That was he 

Without whose life I had not been. 

Your loss is rarer ; for this star 

Rose with you thro' a little arc 

Of heaven, nor having wander'd far 
Shot on the sudden into dark. 

I knew your brother : his mute dust 
I honor and his living worth : 

A man more pure and bold and just 
Was never born into the earth. 

I have not look'd upon you nigh, 

Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. 

Great Nature is more wise than I : 
I will not tell you not to weep. 

And tho' mine own eyes fiU with dew, 

Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, 

I will not even preach to you, 

" Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain." 

Let Grief be her own mistress still. 

She loveth her own anguish deep 
More than much pleasure. Let her will 

Be done — to weep or not to weep. 

I will not say " God's ordinance 

Of death is blown in every wind ; " 

For that is not a common chance 
That takes away a noble mind. 

His memory long will live alone 

In all our hearts, as mournful light 
That broods above the fallen sun, 

?^nd dwells in heaven half the night. 

►^ 
Vain solace ! Memory standing near 

Cast down her eyes, and in her tlfroat 
Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear 

Dropt on the letters as I wrote. 



99 



I "wrote I know not what. In truth, 
How should I soothe you anyway, 

Who miss the brother of your youth ? 
Yet something I did wish to say : 

For he too was a fi-iend to me : 

Both are my friends, and my true breast 
Bleedeth for both ; yet it may be 

That only silence suiteth best. 

Words weaker than your grief would make 

Grief more. 'Twere better I should cease; 

Although myself could almost take 

The place of him that sleeps in peace. 

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace : 

Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul. 
While the stars burn, the moons increase. 

And the great ages onward roll. 

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. 

Nothing comes to thee new or strange. 
Sleep full of rest from head to feet ; 

Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. 



You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, 
W^ithin this region I subsist. 
Whose spirits falter in the mist, 

And languish for the purple seas ? 

It is the land that freemen till. 

That sober-suited Freedom chose. 

The land, where girt with friends or foes 

A man may speak the thing he will ; 

A land of settled government, 

A land of just and old renown, ^ 

Where Freedom broadens slowly down^ 

From precedent to precedent : 

Where faction seldom gathers head. 

But by degrees to fulness wrought. 
The strength of some diffusive thought 

Hath time and space to work and spread. 



100 

Should banded unions persecute 
Opinion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil crime, 

And individual freedom mute ; 

The' Power should make from land to land 
The name of Britain trebly great — 
'Tho' every channel of the State 

Should almost choke with golden sand — 

Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth, 

Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky, 
And I wiU see before I die 

The pahns and temples of the South. 



Of old sat Freedom on the heights, 

The thunders breaking at her feet : 

Above her shook the starry lights : 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 

Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came roUing on the wind. 

Then stept she down thro' town and field 
To mingle with the human race, 

And part by part to men reveal'd 
The fulness of her face — 

Grave mother of majestic works. 

From her isle-altar gazing down, 
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks. 

And, King-like, wears the crown : 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

^The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 
Keep dry their light from tears ; 

That her fair form may stand and shine, 

Make bright our days and light our dreams, 

Turning to scorn Avith lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes ! 



101 



Love thou thy land, with love far-brought 
From out the storied Past, and used 
Within the Present, but trapsfused 

Thro' future time by power of thought. 

True love turn'd round on fixed poles, 
Love, that endures not sordid ends, 
For English natures, freemen, friends, 

Thy brothers and immortal souls. 

But pamper not a hasty time, 
Noi' feed with crude imaginings 
The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings, 

That every sophister can lime. 

Deliver not the tasks of might 

To weakness, neither hide the ray 
From those, not blind, who wait for day, 

Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 

Make knowledge circle with the winds ; 

But let her herald, Reverence, fly 

Before her to whatever sky 
Bear seed of men and growth of minds. 

Watch what main-currents draw the years : 
Cut Prejudice against the grain : 
But gentle words are always gain : 

Regard the weakness of thy peers : 

Nor toil for title, place, or touch 

Of pension, neither count on praise : 
It grows to guerdon after-days: 

Nor deal in watchwords overmuch ; 

Not clinging to some ancient saw ; 

Not master'd by some modern term ; 

Not swift nor slow to change, but firm : 
And in its season bring the law ; 

That from Discussion's lip may fall 

With Life, that, working strongly, binds - 
Set in all lights by many minds, 

To close the interests of all. 



102 

For Nature also, cold and warm, 
And moist and dry, devising long, 
Thro' many agents making strong, 

Matm-es the individual form. 

Meet is it changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
We all are changed by still degrees. 

All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be free 
To ingroove itself with that, which flies, 
And work, a joint of state, that plies 

Its office, moved with sympathy. 

A saying, hard to shape in act; 
For all the past of Time reveals 
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals. 

Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact, 

Ev'n now we hear with inward strife 
A motion toiling in the gloom — 
The Spirit of the years to come 

Yearning to mix himself with Life. 

A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a painful school ; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule, 

New Majesties of mighty States — 

The warders of the growing hour, 
But vague in vapor, hard to mark ; 
And round them sea and air are dark 

With great contrivances of Power. 

Of many changes, aptly join'd, 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Regard gradation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind ; 

A wind to puff your idol-fires. 

And heap their ashes on the head ; 
To shame the boast so often made. 

That we are wiser than our sires. 



103 

Oh yet, if Nature's evil star 

Drive men in manhood, as in youth, 
To follow flying steps of Truth 

Across the brazen bridge of war — 

If New and Old, disastrous feud, 
Must ever shock, like armed foes, 
And this be true, till Time shall close. 

That Principles are rain'd in blood ; 

Not yet the wise of heart would cease 
To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt, 
But with his hand against the hilt, 

Would pace the troubled land, like Peace ; 

Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, 

Would serve his kind in deed and word, 
Certain, if knowledge bring the sword. 

That knowledge takes the sword away — 

Would love the gleams of good that broke 
From either side, nor veil his eyes : 
And if some dreadful need should rise 

Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke : 

To-morrow yet would reap to-day, 
As we bear blossoms of the dead; 
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed 

Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 



THE GOOSE. 

I KNEW an old wife lean and poor, 
Her rags scarce held together ; 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather. 

He held a goose upon his arm, 

He utter'd rhyme and reason, 
" Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, 

It is a stormy season." 

She caught the white goose by the leg, 
A goose — 't was no great matter. 

The goose let fall a golden egg 
With cackle and with clatter. 

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf 
And ran to tell her neighbors ; 

And bless'd herself, and cursed herself, 
And rested from her labors. 

And feeding high, and living soft, 

Grew plump and able-bodied ; 
Until the grave churchwarden doff'd. 

The parson smirk'd and nodded. 

So sitting, served by man and maid. 
She felt her heart grow prouder : 

But ah ! the more the white goose laid 
It clack'd and cackled louder. 



THE EPIC. 105 

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there ; 

It stirr'd the okl wife's mettle : 
She shifted in her elbow-chair, 

And hurl'd the pan and kettle. 

"A quinsy choke thy cursed note ! " 

Then wax'd her anger stronger. 
" Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, 

I will not bear it longer." 

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat ; 

Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. 
The goose flew this way and flew that. 

And fill'd the house with clamor. 

As head and heels upon the floor 

They flounder'd all together. 
There strode a stranger to the door. 

And it was windy weather : 

He took the goose upon his arm, 

He utter'd words of scorning ; 
" So keep you cold, or keep you warm, 

It is a stormy morning." 

The wild wind rang from park and plain, 

And round the attics rumbled. 
Till all the tables danced again. 

And half the chimneys tumbled. 

The glass blew in, the fire blew out. 

The blast was hard and harder. 
Her cap blew ofl", her gown blew up, 

And a whirlwind clear'd the larder : 

And while on all sides breaking loose 

Her household fled the danger. 
Quoth she, " The Devil take the goose, 

And God forget the stranger ! " 



THE EPIC. 

At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve, — 
The game of forfeits done — the girls all kiss'd 



106 THE EPIC. 

Beneafh the sacred bush and past away — 

The parson Hohnes, the poet Everard Hall, 

The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl, 

Then half-way ebb'd : and there we held a talk, 

How all the old honor had from Christmas gone. 

Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games 

In some odd nooks like this ; till I, tired out 

With cutting eights that day upon the pond, 

Where, three times slipping from the outer edge, 

I bump'd the ice into three several stars, 

Fell in a doze ; and half-awake I heard 

The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, 

Now harping on the church-commissioners, 

Now hawking at Geology and schism ; 

Until I woke, and found him settled down 

Upon the general decay of faith 

Right thro' tlie world, " at home was little left, 

And none abroad : there was no anchor, none. 

To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his hand 

On Everard's shoulder, with " I hold by him." 

" And I," qiioth Everard, " by the wassail-bowl." 

" Why yes," I said, " we knew your gift that way 

At college : but another which you had, 

I mean of verse (for so we held it then,) 

What came of that ? " " You know," said Frank, " he burnt 

His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books " — 

And then to me demanding why ? " Oh, sir. 

He thought that nothing new was said, or else 

Something so said 't was nothing — that a truth 

Looks freshest in the fashion of the day : 

God knows : he has a mint of reasons : ask. 

It pleased me well enough." " Nay, nay," said Hall, 

" Why take the style of those heroic times ? 

For nature brings not back the Mastodon, 

Nor we those times ; and why should any man 

Kemodel models ? these twelve books of mine 

Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth. 

Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt." " But I," 

Said Francis, " pick'd the eleventh from this hearth, 

And have it : keep a thing, its use will come. 

I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." 

He laugh'd, and I, though sleepy, like a horse 

That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears ; 

For I remember'd Everard's college fame 

When we were Freshmen : then at my request 



MORTE d'ARTHUR. 107 



He brought it ; and the poet httle urged, 
But with some prehide of disparagement, 
Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, 
Deep-chested music, and to this result. 



MORTE D'ARTHUR. 

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 

Among the mountains by the winter sea ; 

Until King Arthur's table, man by man, 

Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord, 

King Arthur : then, because his wound was deep, 

The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 

Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, 

And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 

A broken chancel with a broken cross, 

That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 

On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 

Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
" The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we 
Shall never more, at any future time, 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, 
Wallcing about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 
To rule once more — but let- what will be, be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
Holding the sword — and how I row'd across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a king : 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In after-time, this also shall be known : 
But now delay not : t^ke Excalibur, 



108 MORTE d'ARTHUR. 

And fling him far into the middle mere : 

Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word." 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down 
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, 
This way and that dividing the swift mind. 
In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted waterflags. 
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 
Then spake Bang Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
" Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave ? 
What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds. 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : 
•' Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name. 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand. 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." 



MORTE d'ARTHUR. 109 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought ; 
But Avhen he saw the wonder of the hilt. 
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud. 

" And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note. 
Should thus be lost forever from the earth. 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. 
What good should follow this, if this were done ? 
What harm, undone ? deep harm to disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself? 
The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 
And rumors of a doubt ? but were this kept, 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings. 
Some one might show it at a joust of arms, 
Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excallbur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame were lost." 

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time. 
And so strode back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : 
" What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
"I heard the water lapping on the crag. 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 

To whom replied King Ai-thur, much in wrath : 
" Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king. 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, 
In whom should meet the oflSces of all. 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; 



110 MORTE D'ARTHUR. 

Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 

Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 

Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 

And the third time may prosper, get thee hence : 

But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 

I will arise and slay thee with my hands." 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword. 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon, 
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch. 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath : 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, or seen ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him ; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard : 
" My end draws nigh ; 't is time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, 
And bear me to tlie margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 

So saying, from the pavement he half rose. 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 



MOKTI-: D AKTIIUK. 



Ill 



And would have s])oken, but lie found not words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling- on one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands. 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard. 
Like one tliat feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigli'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear " Quick, quick I 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 




But the other ^wify y strode from ridge to ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd, 



112 MORTE d'ARTHUR. 

Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten Avith the dint of armed heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake. 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral-scarf from stem to stern. 
Beneath them ; and descending they were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold — and from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a Avind, that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me in the barge," 
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, 
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud. 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were parch'd with dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the King ; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, 
From spur to plume a star of tournament. 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, 
''Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go ? 



MORTE d'ARTHUR. 113 

Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes ? 

For now I see the true old times are dead, 

When every morning brought a noble chance, 

And every chance brought out a noble knight. 

Such times have been not since the light that led 

The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 

But now the whole round table is dissolved 

Which was an image of the mighty world ; 

And I, the last, go forth companionless, 

And the days darken round me, and the years, 

Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge : 
" The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me ? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He Avithin himself make pure ! but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face again,. 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. "NVlierefore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain. 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them friend? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind bloAvs loudly ; but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair Avith orchard-lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd Avith summer sea, 
Where I Avill heal me of my grievous wound." 

So said he, and the barge Avith oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan 
That, fluting a Avild carol ere her death. 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With SAvarthy Avebs. [ Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, 
And on the mere the wailing died aAvay. 



1 1 4 MORTE d'ARTHUE. 



Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long 
Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared and fell 
At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound. 
And waked with silence, grunted " Good ! " but we 
Sat rapt : it was the tone with which he read — 
Perhaps some modern touches here and there 
Redeem'd it from the charge of nothingness — 
Or else we loved the man, and prized his work ; 
I know not : but Ave sitting, as I said, 
Tiie cock crew loud ; as at that time of year 
The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn : 
Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used, 
" There now — that 's nothing ! " drew a little back, 
And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log. 
That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue : 
And so to bed ; where yet in sleep I seem'd 
To sail with Arthur under looming shores. 
Point after point ; till on to dawn, when dreams 
Begin to feel the truth and stir of day. 
To me, meth ought, who waited with a crowd, 
There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore 
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman 
Of stateliest port ; and all the people cried, 
" Arthur is come again : he cannot die." 
Then those that stood upon the hills behind 
Repeated — " coine again, and thrice as fair ; " 
And, further inland, voices echoed — " come 
With all good things, and war shall be no more/' 
At this a hundred be^lls began to peal. 
That with the sound 1 woke, and heard indeed 
The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn. 




THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER 



oi;, 
THE PICTURES. 

This morning- Is the morning of the day, 
AVhen I and Eustace from the city went 
To see the Gardener's Daughter ; I and he, 
Brother's in Art ; a friendship so complete 
Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew 
The fable of the city where we dwelt. 

My Eustace might have sat for Hercules ; 
So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. 
He, by some law that holds in love, and draws 
The greater to the lesser, long desired 
A certain miracle of symmetry, 
A miniature of loveliness, all grace 
Summ'd up and closed in little ; — Juliet, she 
So light of foot, so light of spirit — oh, she 
To me myself, for some three careless moons, 
The summer pilot of an empty heart 
Unto the shores of nothing ! Know you not 
Such touches are but embassies of love. 
To tamper w'lth the feelings, ere he found 
Empire for life ? but Eustace painted her, 
And said to me, she sitting with us then, 
" When Avill you paint like this ? " and I replied, 
(]\Iy words Avere half in earnest, half in jest,) 
*' 'T is not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, 



116 THE gardener's daughter; 

A more ideal Artist he than all, 
Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes 
Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair 
More black than ashbuds in the front of March." 
And Juliet answer'd laughing, " Go and see 
The Gardener's daughter : trust me, after that. 
You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece." 
And up we rose, and on the spur we went. 

Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. 
News from the humming city comes to it 
In sound of funeral or of marriage bells ; 
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear 
The windy clanging of the minster-clock ; 
Although between it and the garden lies 
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream, 
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar, 
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, 
Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge 
Crown'd with the minster-towers. 

The fields between 
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd kine, 
And all about the large lime feathers low, 
The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. 

In that still place she, hoarded in herself. 
Grew, seldom seen : not less among us lived 
Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard 
Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter ? Where was he, 
So blunt in memory, so old at heart. 
At such a distance from his youth in grief, 
That, having seen, forgot ? The common mouth, 
So gross to express delight, in praise of her 
Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, 
And Beauty such a mistress of the world. 

And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, 
Would play with flying forms and images. 
Yet this is also true, that, long before 
I look'd upon her, when I heard her name 
My heart was like a prophet to my heart, 
And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes, 
That sought to sow themselves like winged seeds. 
Born out of everything I heard and saw, 
Flutter'd about my senses and my soul ; 
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm 
To one that travels quickly, made the air 



i 



OR, THE PICTURES. 117 

Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought, 
That verged upon them, sweeter than the dream 
Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark East, 
Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn. 

And sure this orbit of the memory folds 
Forever in itself the day we went 
To see her. All the land in llowery squares, 
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, 
.Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud 
Drew downward : but all else of Heaven was pure 
Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge. 
And May with me from head to heel. And now. 
As tho' 't were yesterday, as tho' it were 
The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound, 
(For those old Mays had thrice the life of these,) 
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze. 
And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood, 
Leaning his horns into the neighbor field, 
And lowing to his fellows. From the woods 
Came voices of the well-contented doves. 
The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy. 
But shook his song together as he near'd 
His happy home, the ground. To left and right, 
The cuckoo told his name to all the hills ; 
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm ; 
The redcap whistled ; and the nightingale 
Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day. 

And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said to me, 
" Hear how the bushes echo ! by my life, 
These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing 
Like poets, from the vanity of song ? 
Or have they any sense of why they sing ? 
And would they praise the heavens for what they have ? " 
And I made answer, " Were there nothing else 
For which to praise the heavens but only love, 
That only love were cause enough for praise." 

Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my thought, 
And on we went ; but ere an hour had pass'd. 
We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North ; 
Down which a well-worn pathway courted us 
To one green wicket in a privet-hedge ; 
This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk 
Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned ; 
And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew 
Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. 



118 THE gardener's DAUGHTER; 

The garden stretches southward. In the midst 
A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade. 
The garden-glasses shone, and momently 
The twinkling lam^el scatter'd silver lights. 

" Eustace," I said, " this wonder keeps the house." 
He nodded, but a moment afterwards 
He cried, " Look ! look ! " Before he ceased I turn'd, 
And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. 

For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose, 
That, jflowering high, the last night's gale had caught, 
And blown across the walk. One arm aloft — 
Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape — • 
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. 
A single stream of all her soft brown hair 
Pour'd on one side : the shadow of the flowers 
Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering 
Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist — 
Ah, happy shade — and still went wavering down, 
But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced 
The greensward into greener circles, dipt. 
And mix'd with shadows of the common ground \ 
But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd 
Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom, 
And doubled his own warmth against her lips, 
And on the bounteous wave of such a breast 
As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade, 
She stood, a sight to make an old man young. 

So rapt, we near'd the house ; but she, a Rose 
In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, 
Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd 
Into the world without ; till close at hand, 
And almost ere I knew mine own intent, 
This murmur broke the stillness of that air 
Which brooded round about her : 

"Ah, one rose, 
One rose, but one, by those fair fingere cull'd, 
Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips 
Less exquisite than thine." 

She look'd : but all 
Suffused with blushes — neither self-possess'd 
Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that, 
Divided in a graceful quiet — paused. 
And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound 
Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips 
For some sweet answer, tho' no answer came, 



OR, THE PICTURES. 119 

Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, 
And moved away, and left me, statue-like. 
In act to render thanks. 

I, that whole day, 
Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there 
Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star 
Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk. 

So home we went, and all the livelong- way 
With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. 
" Now," said he, " will you climb the top of Art. 
You cannot fail but work in hues to dim 
The Titianic Flora. Will you match 
My Juliet ? }'0u, not you, — the Master, Love, 
A more ideal Artist he than all." 

So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, 
Reading her perfect features in the gloom, 
Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er, 
And shaping faithful record of the glance 
That graced the giving — such a noise of life 
Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice 
Call'd to me from the years to come, and such 
A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark. 
And all that night I heard the Avatchman peal 
The sliding season : all that night I heard 
The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours. 
The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good, 
O'er the mute city stole with folded wings. 
Distilling odors on me as they went 
To greet their fairer sisters of the East. 

Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all. 
Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm 
Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt. 
Light pretexts drew me : sometimes a Dutch love 
For tulips ; then for roses, moss or musk, 
To grace my city-rooms ; or fruits and cream 
Served in the weeping elm ; and more and more 
A word could bring the color to my cheek ; 
A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew ; 
Love trebled life within me, and with each 
The year increased. 

The daughters of the year, 
One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd : 
Each garlanded Avith her peculiar flower 
Danced into light, and died into the shade ; 



120 THE gardener's DAUGHTER; 

A.nd each in passing touch'd with some new grace 
Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day, 
Like one that never can be wholly known, 
Her beauty greAV ; till Autumn brought an hour 
For Eustace, when I heard his deep "• I will," 
Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold 
From thence thro' all the worlds : but I rose up 
Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes 
Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd 
The wicket-gate, and found her standing there. 

There sat we down upon a garden mound, 
Two mutually enfolded : Love, the third, 
Between us, in the circle of his arms 
En wound us both ; and over many a range 
Of waning lime the gray cathedral-towers, 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west, 
Reveal'd their shining windows : from them clash'J 
The bells ; we listened ; with the time we play'd ; 
We spoke of other things ; we coursed about 
The subject most at heart, more near and near. 
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round 
The central wish, until we settled there. 

Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her, 
Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own. 
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear. 
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, 
A woman's heart, the heart of her 1 loved ; 
And in that time and place she answer'd me, 
And in the compass of three little words, . . 
More musical than ever came in one. 
The silver fragments of a broken voice. 
Made me most happy, faltering " I am thine." 

Shall I cease here ? Is this enough to say 
That my desire, like all strongest hopes. 
By its own energy fulfill'd itself, 
Merged in comi3letion ? Would you learn at full 
How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades 
Beyond aU grades develop'd ? and indeed 
I had not stayed so long to tell you all. 
But while I mused came Memory with sad eyes. 
Holding the folded annals of my youth ; 
And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by, 
And with a flying finger swept my lips. 
And spake, " Be wise : not easily forgiven 



OR, THE PICTURES. 121 

Are those, who setting wide the doors, that bar 

The secret bridal cJiambei-s of the heart, 

Let in the day." Here, then, my words have end. 

Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells — 
Of that which came between, more sweet than each, 
In whispere, like the whispers of the leaves 
That tremble round a nightingale — in sighs 
Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utterance. 
Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell 
Of dijfTerence, reconcilement, pledges given, 
And vows, where there was never need of vows, 
And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap 
Hung tranced fi'om all pulsation, as above 
The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale 
Sow'd all their mystic gulfs Avith fleeting stars ; 
Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit. 
Spread the light haze along the river-shores. 
And in the hollows ; or as once we met 
Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain 
Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind. 
And in her bosom bore the baby. Sleep. 

But this whole hour your eyes have been intent 
On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for what it holds 
May not be dwelt on by the common day. 
This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul ; 
Make thine heart ready with thine eyes : the time 
Is come to raise the veil. 

Behold her there, 
As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, 
My fii-st, last love ; the idol of my youth, 
The darling of my manhood, and, alas ! 
Now the most blessed memory of mine age. 




DORA. 



With fanner Allan at the farm abode 

William and Dora. William was his son, 

And she his niece. He often look'd at them, 

And often thought " I '11 make them man and wife." 

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 

And yearn'd towards William ; but tlie youth, because 

He had been always with her in the house, 

Thouglit not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
^Vhen Allan call'd his son, and said, " My son : 
I married late, but I would Avish to see 
My fijrandchild on my knees before I die : 
And I liave set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter : he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and lie died 
In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora : take her for your wife ; 
For I have wish'd tliis marriage, night and day, 
For many years." But William answer'd short : 
" I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
I will not marry Dora." Then the old man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said : 
" You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus ! 
But in my time a father's word was laAV, 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to it ; 
Consider, William : take a month to think. 



DORA. 123 

And let me have an answer to my wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack. 
And never more darken my doors again." 
But William answer'd madly ; bit his lips, 
And broke away. The more he look'd at her 
The less he liked her ; and his ways were harsh ; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 
The month was out he left his father's house, 
And hired himself to work within the fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd 
His niece and said : " My girl, I love you well ; 
But if you speak with him that was my son, 
Or change a word with her he calls his wife, 
My home is none of yours. My will is law." 
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 
" It cannot be : my uncle's mind will change ! " 

And days went on, and there was born a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on him ; 
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. 
But Dora stored Avhat little she could save. 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest-time he died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : 

" I have obey'd my uncle until now, 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me 
This exal came on WilHam at the first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that 's gone, 
And for your sake, the woman that he chose, 
And for this orphan, I am come to you : 
You know there has not been for these five years 
So fiiU a harvest : let me take the boy. 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy. 
And bless him for the sake of him that 's gone." 

And Dora took the child, and went her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 



124 DORA. 

And spied her not ; for none of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to him, 
But her heart fail'd her ; and the reapers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

But when the morrow came, she rose and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the mound ; 
And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field 
He spied her, and he left his men at work. 
And came and said : " Where were you yesterday ? 
Whose child is that ! What are you doing here ? " 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, 
And answer'd softly, " This is William's child ! " 
"And did I not," said Allan, " did I not 
Forbid you, Dora ? " Dora said again : 
" Do with me as you will, but take the child 
And bless him for the sake of him that 's gone ! " 
And Allan said, " I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 
I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
You knew my word was law, and yet you dared 
To slight it. Well — for I will take the boy ; 
But go you hence, and never see me more." 

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell 
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands. 
And the boy's cry came to her from the field, 
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head. 
Remembering the day when first she came, 
And all the things that had been. She bow^d down 
And wept in secret ; and the reapers reap'd. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise 
To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said, " My uncle took the boy ; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with you : 
He says that he will never see me more." 
Then answer'd Mary, " This shall never be. 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: 
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, 



DORA. 125 

For he will teach him hardness, and to slight 
His mother; therefore thou and I will go, 
And I will have my hoy, and bring him home ; 
And I will beg of him to take thee back : 
But if he will not take thee back again, 
Then thou and I will live within one house, 
And work for William's child, until he grows 
Of age to help us." 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. 
The door was off the latch : they peep'd, and saw 
The boy set up betwixt his gi^andsire's knees, 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, 
And clapt him on the hands -and on the cheeks, 
Like one that loved him : and the lad stretch'd out 
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung 
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. 
Then they came in : but when the boy beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her : 
And Allan set him down, and Mary said : 

" O Father ! — if you let me call you so — 
I never came a-begging for myself, 
Or William, or this child ; but now I come 
For Dora : take her back ; she loves you well. 

Sir, when William died, he died at peace 
With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he said. 
He could not ever rue his marrying me — 

1 had been a patient wife : but. Sir, he said 
That he was wrong to cross his father thus : 

' God bless him ! ' he said, ' and may he never know 
The troubles I have gone thro' ! ' Then he turn'd 
His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am ! 
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you 
Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight 
His father's memory ; and take Dora back, 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the room ; 
And all at once the old man burst in sobs : — 

" I have been to blame — to blame. I have kill'd my 
son. 
I have kill'd him — but I loved him — my dear son. 
May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. 
Kiss me, my children." 



126 AUDLEY COUJRT. 

Then they clung about 
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many' times. 
And all the man was broken with remorse ; 
And all his love came back a hundredfold ; 
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, 
Thinking of William. 

f So those four abode 
Within one house together ; and as years 
Went forward, Mary took another mate : 
' But Dora lived unmarried till her death, j 



AUDLEY COURT. 

" The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a room 
For love or money. Let us picnic there 
At Dudley Court." 

I spoke, while Audley feast 
Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay. 
To Francis, with a basket on his arm. 
To Francis just alighted from the boat, 
And breathing of the sea. " With all my heart," 
Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro' the swarm, 
And rounded by the stillness of the beach 
To where the bay runs up its latest horn. 

We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd 
The flat red granite ; so by many a sweep 
Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd 
The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd thro' all 
The pillar'd dust of sounding sycamores. 
And cross'd the garden to the gardener's lodge, 
With all its casements bedded, and its walls 
And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. 

There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid 
A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound, 
Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home. 
And, half cut down, a pasty costly made. 
Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, 
Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks 
Imbedded and injellied ; last, with these, 
A flask of cider from his father's vats. 
Prime, which I knew ; and so we sat and ate 
And talk'd old matters over ; who was dead, 



AUDLEY COURT. 127 

Who married, who was like to be, and how 
The races went, and who would rent the hall : 
Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce it was 
This season ; glancing thence, discuss'd the farm, 
The fourfield system, and the price of grain ; 
And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split, 
And came again together on the king 
With heated faces ; till he laugh'd aloud ; 
And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung 
To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang — 

" Oh ! who would fight and march and countermarch, 
Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field. 
And shoveird up into a bloody trench 
Where no one knows ? but let me live my life. 

" Oh ! who would cast and balance at a desk, 
Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool. 
Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints 
Are full of chalk ? but let me live my life. 

" Who 'd serve the state ? for if T carved my name 
Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, 
I might as well have traced it in the sands ; 
TTie sea wastes all : but let me live my life. 

" Oh ! who would love ? I vroo'd a woman once. 
But she was sharper than an eastern wind. 
And all my heart turn'd from her, as a thorn 
Turns from the sea ; but let me live my life." 

He sang his song, and I rejjlied with mine : 
T found it in a volume, all of songs, 
Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's pride. 
His books — the more the pity, so I said — 
Came to the hammer here in March — and this — 
I set the words, and added names I knew. 

" Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me : 
Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, 
And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. 

" Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm ; 
Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, 
For thou art fairer than all else that is. 

" Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast 
Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip : 
I go to-night : I come to-morrow morn. 

" I go, but I return : I would I were 
The pilot of the darkness and the dream. 
Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me." 

So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, 



128 WAIiKING TO THE MAIL. 

The farmer's son, who lived across the bay, 
My friend ; and I, that having wherewithal. 
And in the fallow leisure of my life 
A rolling stone of here and everywhere, 
Did what I would ; but ere the night we rose 
And saunter'd home beneath a moon, that, just 
In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf 
Twilights of airy silver, till we reach'd 
The limit of the hills ; and as we sank 
From rock to rock upon the glooming quay. 
The town was hush'd beneath us : lower down 
The bay was oily calm ; the harbor-buoy 
With one green sparkle ever and anon 
Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 

John. I 'm glad I walk'd. How fresh the meadows look 
Above the river, and, but a month ago. 
The whole hill-side was redder than a fox. 
Is yon plantation where this by-way joins 
The turnpike ? 

James. Yes. 

John. And when does this come by ? 
James. The mail ? At one o'clock. 

John. What is it now ? 
James. A quarter to. 

John. Whose house is that I see ? 
No, not the County Member's with the vane : 
Up higher with the yew-tree by it, and half 
A score of gables. 

James. That ? Sir Edward Head's ; 
But he 's abroad : the place is to be sold. 
John. Oh, his. He was not broken. 

James. No, sir, he, 
Vex'd with a morbid devil in his blood 
That veil'd the world with jaundice, hid his face 
From all men, and commercing with himself, 
He lost the sense that handles daily life — 
That keeps us all in order more or less — 
And sick of home went overseas for change. 
John. And whither ? 

James. Nay, who knows ? he 's here and there. 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 129 

But let him go ; his devil goes with him, 
As well as with his tenant, Jocky DaAves. 

John. What 's that ? 

Jamea. You saw the man — on Monday, was it ? — 
There by the liumpback'd willow ; half stands up 
And bristles ; half has fall'n and made a bridge ; 
And there he caught the younker tickling trout — 
Caught in flagrante — Avhat 's the Latin Avord ? — 
Delicto : bat his house, for so they say. 
Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook 
The curtains, Avhined in lobbies, tapt at doors. 
And rummaged like a rat : no servant stay'd : 
The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, 
And all his household stuff; and with his boy 
Betwixt his knees, his Avife upon the tilt. 
Sets out, and meets a friend Avho hails him, " What ! 
You Ve flitting ! " " Yes, Ave 're flitting," says the ghost, 
(For they had pack'd the thing among the beds,) 
" Oh well," says he, " you flitting Avith us too — 
Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again." 

John. He left his Avife behind ; for so I heard. 

James. He left her, yes. I met my lady once : 
A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. 

John. Oh yet but I remember, ten years back — 
'T is now at least ten years — and then she Avas — 
You could not light upon a SAveeter thing : 
A body slight and round, and like a pear 
In groAA'ing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot 
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin 
As clean and Avliite as privet Avhen it flowers. 

James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved 
At first like dove and dove Avere cat and dog. 
She Avas the daughter of a cottager. 
Out of her sphere. What betAvixt shame and pride, 
NeAV things and old, himself and her, she sour'd 
To Avhat she is : a nature never kind ! 
Like men, like manners : like breeds like, they say. 
Kind nature is the best : those manners next 
That fit us like a nature second-hand ; 
Which are indeed the manners of the great. 

John. But I had heard it Avas this bill that past, 
And fear of change at home, that drove him hence. 

James. That Avas the last drop in the cup of gall. 
I once was near him, Avhen his bailiff brought 
A Chartist pike. You shoidd have seen him Avince 



130 WALKING TO THE MAIL. 

As from a venomous thing : he thought himself 
A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a cry 
Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes 
Should see the raw mechanic's bloody thumbs 
Sweat on his blazon'd chairs ; but, sir, you know 
That these two parties still divide the world — 
Of those that want, and those that have : and still 
The same old sore breaks out from age to age 
With much the same result. Now I myself, 
A Tory to the quick, was as a boy 
Destructive, when T had not what I would. 
I was at school — a college in the South : 
There lived a fiayflint near ; we stole his fruit. 
His hens, his eggs ; but there was law for us ; 
We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. She, 
With meditative grunts of much content, 
Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and mud. 
By night we dragg'd her to the college-tower 
From her warm bed, and up the corkscrew stair 
With hand and rope we hauled the groaning sow. 
And on the leads we kept her till she pigg'd. 
Large range of prospect had the mother sow. 
And but for daily loss of one she loved. 
As one by one we took them — but for this — 
As never sow was higher in this world — 
Might have been happy : but what lot is pure ? 
We took them all, till she was left alone 
Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine. 
And so return'd unfarrow'd to her sty. 

John. They found you out ? 

James. Not they. 

John. Well — after all 
What know we of the secret of a man ? 
His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are sound, 
That we should mimic this raw fool the world. 
Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or whites, 
As ruthless as a baby with a worm, 
As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows 
To Pity — more from ignorance than will. 

But put your best foot forward, or I fear 
That we shall miss the mail : and here it comes 
With five at top : as quaint a four-in-hand 
As you shall see — three piebalds and a roan. 




EDWIN MORRIS 



OK, THE LAKE. 



O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake, 

I\Iy sweet, wild, fresh three quartei-s of a year, 

My one Oasis in the dust and drought 

Of city life ! I was a sketcher then : 

See here, my doing : curves of mountain, bridge, 

Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built 

When men knew how to build, upon a rock, 

With turrets lichen-gilded like a I'ock : 

And here, new-comers in an ancient hold, 

Kew-comers from the Mersey, millionaii'es, 

Here lived the Hills — a Tudor-chimne}ed bulk 

Of mellow brickwork on an isle of boAvers. 

O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake 
AVith Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull 
The curate ; he was fatter than his cure. 

But Edwin Mon-is, he that knew the names, 
Long learned names of agaric, moss and fern, 
Who forged a thousand theories of the i-ocks, 
Who taught me how to skate, to row, to SM'im, 
AVho read me rhymes elaborately good. 
His own — 1 1 call'd liim Crichton, for he seenf d 
All-perfect, finish'd'to the finger-nail. J 



And once I ask'd liim of his (^arly lite, 
And his fii^t ])assion ; and he answci-'d mc ; 



132 EDWIN MOKKIS; 

And well his words became him : was he not 

A full-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence 

Stored from all flowers ? Poet-like he spoke. 

" My love for Nature is as old as I ; 
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that, 
And three rich sennights more, my love for her. 
My love for Nature and my love for her, 
Of different ages, hke twin-sisters grew, 
Twin-sisters differently beautiful. 
To some full music rose and sank the sun. 
And some full music seem'd to move and change 
With all the varied changes of the dark, 
And either twilight and the day between ; 
For daily hope fulfilled, to rise again 
lievolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet 
To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to breathe." 

Or this or something like to this he spoke. 
Then said the fat-faced curate Edward Bull, 

" I take it, God made the woman for the man. 
And for the good and increase of the world. 
A pretty face is well, and this is well, 
To have a dame indoors, that trims us up, 
And keeps us tight ; but these unreal ways 
Seem but the theme of writers, and indeed 
Worn threadbare. / Man is made of solid stuff. 
I say, God made the woman for the man, , 
And for the good and increase of the world.'' 

" Parson," said I, " you pitch the pipe too low : 
But I have sudden touches, and can run 
My faith beyond my practice into his : 
Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, 
I do not hear the bells upon my cap, 
I scarce hear other music ; yet say on. 
What should one give to light on such a dream ? ' 
I ask'd him half=sardonically. 

" Give ? 
Give all thou art,'* he answer'd, and a light 
Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek ; 
" I would have hid her needle in 'my heart, 
To save her little finger from a scratch 
No deeper than the skin : my ears could hear 
Her lightest breaths : her least remark was worth 



OR, THE LAKE. 133 

The experience of the wise. I went and came ; 
Her voice fled always thro' the summer land ; 
I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days ! 
The flower of each, those moments when we met, 
The crown of all, we met to part no more." 

Were not his words delicious, I a beast 
To take them as I did ? but something jarr'd ; 
Whether he spoke too largely ; that there seem'd 
A touch of something false, some self-conceit, 
Or over-smoothness : howsoe'er it was, 
He scarcely hit my humor, and I said : 

" Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone 
Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me, 
As in the Latin song I learnt at school. 
Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and left ? 
But you can talk ; yours is a kindly vein : 
I have, I think, — Heaven knows, — as much within ; 
Have, or should havej but for a thought or two, 
That like a purple beech among the greens 
Looks out of place : 't is from no want in her : 
It is my shyness, or my self-distrust. 
Or something of a wayward modern mind 
Dissecting passion*. Time will set me right." 

So spoke I knowing not the things that were. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull : 
" God made the woman for the use of man. 
And for the good and increase of the world." 
And I and Edwin laugh'd ; and now we paused 
About the winding-s of the mar^'e to hear 
The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms 
And alders, garden-isles ; and now we left 
The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran 
By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, 
Delighted with the freshness and the sound. 

But, when the bracken rusted on their crags. 
My suit had wither'd, nipt to death by him 
That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk. 
The rent-roll Cupid of our rainy isles. 
'T is true, we met ; one hour I had, no more : 
She sent a note, the seal an Elle vous suit, 
The close " Your Letty, only yours ; " and this 



134 EDWIN MORRIS ; OR, THE LAKE. 

Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of morn 

Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran 

My craft aground, and heard with beating heart 

The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelving keel ; 

And out I stept, and up I crept : she moved, 

Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers : 

Then low and sweet I whistled thrice ; and she, 

She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore faith, I breathed 

In some new planet : a silent cousin stole 

Upon us and departed : " Leave," she cried, 

" O leave me ! " " Never, dearest, never : here 

I brave the worst : " and while we stood like fools 

Embracing, all at once a score of pugs 

And poodles yell'd within, and out they came 

Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. " What, with him ! 

Go " (shrill'd the cotton-spinning chorus) " him ! " 

I choked. Again they shriek'd the burden '• Him ! " 

Again with hands of wild rejection " Go ! — 

Girl, get you in ! " She went — and in one month 

They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds, 

To lands in Kent and messuages in York, 

And slight Sir Robert with his watery smile 

And educated whisker. But for me, 

They set an ancient creditor to work : 

It seems I broke a close with force and arms : 

There came a mystic token from the king 

To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy ! 

I read, and fled by night, and flying turn'd : 

Her taper glimmer'd in the lake below : 

I turn'd once more, close-button'd to the storm ; 

So left the place, left Edwin, nor have seen 

Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to hear. 

Nor cared to hear ? perha]:)S : yet long ago 
I have pardon'd little Letty ; not indeed. 
It may be, for her own dear sake but this. 
She seems a part of those fresh days to me ; 
For in the dust and drought of London life 
She moves among my visions of the lake. 
While the prime swallow dips his wing, or then 
While the gold-lily blows, and overhead 
The light cloud smoulders on the summer crag. 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 

Altho' I be the basest of mankind, 

From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin, 

Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet 

For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy, 

I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold 

Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn, and sob, 

Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer, 

Have mercy. Lord, and take away my sin. 

Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God, 
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years. 
Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs. 
In hungei"s and in thirsts, fevers and cold. 
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and cramps, 
A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud. 
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne 
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow : 
And I had hoped that ere this period closed 
Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest. 
Denying not these weather-beaten limbs 
The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm. 

O take the meaning. Lord : I do not breathe. 
Not whisper, any murmur of complaint. 
Pain heap'd ten-hundredfold to this, were still 
Less burden, by ten-hundredfold, to bear. 
Than were those lead-like tons of sin, that crush'd 
My spirit flat before thee. 

O Lord, Lord, 
Thou knowest I bore this better at the first. 
For I was strong and hale of body then ; 
And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt away. 
Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard 
Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon, 
I drown'd the whoopings of the owl with sound 
Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes saw 
An angel stand and watch me, as I sang. 
Now am I feeble grown ; my end draws nigh ; 
I hope my end draws nigh : half deaf I am. 
So that I scarce can hear the people hum 
About the column's base, and almost blind. 
And scarce can recognize the fields I know ; 
And both my thighs are rotted with the dew ; 
Yet cease I not to clamor and to cry. 



136 ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 

While my stiiF spine can hold my weary head. 
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone, 
Have mercy, mercy : take away my sin. 

O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul, 
Who may be saved ? who is it may be saved ? 
Wlio may be made a saint, if I fail here ? 
Show me the man hath suffer'd more than I. 
For did not all thy martyre die one death ? 
For either they were stoned, or crucified. 
Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, "or sawn 
In twain beneath the ribs ; but I die here 
To-day, and whole years long, a life of death. 
Bear witness, if I could have found a way 
(And heediully I sifted all my thought) 
More slowly-painful to subdue this home 
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, 
I had not stinted practice, O my God. 

For not alone this pillar-punishment, 
Kot this alone I bore : but while I hved 
In the white convent down the valley there, 
For many weeks about my loins I wore 
The rope that haled the buckets fi-om the well. 
Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose ; 
And spake not of it to a single soul. 
Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, 
Betray'd my secret penance, so that all 
My brethi-en marvell'd gi-eatly. More than this 
I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all. 

Three wintei-s, that my soul might grow to thee, 
I lived up there on yonder mountain-side. 
My right leg chain'd into the crag, I lay 
Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones ; 
Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice 
Black'd with thy branding thunder, and sometimes 
Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not. 
Except the spare chance-gift of those that came 
To touch my body and be he^il'd, and live : 
And they say then that I work'd miracles, 
Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind, 
Cured lameness, palsies, cancei"s. Thou, O God, 
Knowest alone whether this was or no. 
Have mercy, meix?y ; cover all my sin. 

Then, that I might be more alone -vN-ith thee, 
Thi-ee years I lived upon a pillar, high 
Six cubits, and thi-ee yeai-s on one of twelve ; 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 137 

And twice three years I crouch'd on one that rose 
Twenty by measure ; last of all, I grew 
TAvice ten long weary weary years to this, 
Thc^t numbei-s forty cubits from the soil. 

I think that I have borne as much as this — 
Or else I dream — and for so long a time, 
If I may measure time by yon slow light, 
And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns — 
So much — even so. 

And yet I know not well, 
For that the evil ones come here, and say, 
" Fall down, O Simeon : thou hast suffer'd long 
For ages and for ages ! " then they prate 
Of penances I cannot have gone thro'. 
Perplexing me with lies ; and oft I fall. 
Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies. 
That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked. 

But yet 
Bethink thee. Lord, while thou and all the saints 
Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on earth 
House in the shade of comfortable roofs. 
Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food, 
And Avear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls, 
I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light. 
Bow down one thousand and two hundred times. 
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints ; 
Or in the night, after a little sleep, 
I wake : the chill stars sparkle ; I am wet 
With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost. 
I wear an undress'd goatskin on my back ; 
A grazing iron collar grinds my neck ; 
And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross. 
And strive and wrestle with thee till I die : 
O mercy, mercy ! wash away my sin. 

O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am ; 
A sinful man, conceived and born in sin : 
'T is their own doing ; this is none of mine ; 
Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this. 
That here come those that worship me ? Ha ! ha ! 
They think that I am somewhat. What am I ? 
The silly people take me for a saint, 
And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers : 
And I, in truth (thou wilt bear Avitness here) 
Have all in all endured as much, and more 
Than many just and holy men, whose names 
Are register'd and calendar'd for saints. 



138 ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 

Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. 
What is it I can have done to merit this ? 
I am a sinner viler than you all. 
It may be I have wrought some miracles, 
And cured some halt and maim'd ; but what of that ? 
It may be, no one, even among the saints, 
May match his pains with mine ; but what of that ? 
Yet do not rise ; for you may look on me. 
And in your looking you may kneel to God. 
Speak ! is there any of you halt or maim'd ? 
I think you know I have some power with Heaven 
From my long penance : let him speak his wish. 

Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me. 
They say that they are heal'd. Ah, hark ! they shout 
" St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so, 
God reaps a harvest in me. O my soul, 
God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be, 
Can I work miracles and not be saved ? 
This is not told of any. They were saints. 
It cannot be but that I shall be saved ; 
Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, " Behold a saint ! " 
And lower voices saint me from above. 
Courage, St. Simeon ! This dull chrysalis 
Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death 
Spreads more and more and more, that God hath now 
Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all 
My mortal archives. 

O my sons, my sons, 
I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname 
Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, 
The watcher on the column till the end ; 
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes ; 
I, whose bald brows in silent hours become 
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now 
From my high nest of penance here proclaim 
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side 
Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay, 
A vessel full of sin : all hell beneath 
Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd my sleeve ; 
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. 
I smote them with the cross ; they swarm'd again. 
In bed like monstrous apes they crush'd my chest : 
They flapp'd my light out as I read : I saw 
Their faces grow between me and my book ; 
With colt-like whinny and with hoggish whine 
They burst my prayer. Yet this way was left, 



ST 



>IMEOX STYLITKS. 



139 



And by this way I 'scaped them. Mortify 
Your riesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns ; 
Smite, slu-ink not, spare not. If it may be, fast 
AVhole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps, 
AVlth slow, faint steps, and much exceeding pain. 
Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that still 
Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the praise * 
God only thro' his bounty hath thought fit, 
Among the powers and princes of this world, 
To make me an example to mankind, 
AVhich few can reach to. Yet I do not say 
But that a time may come — yea, even now, 
Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold stairs 
Of life — I say, that time is at the doors 
When }'ou may worship me without reproach ; 




For I Avill leave my relics in your land. 
And you may carve a shrine about my du8t. 
And burn a fragi-ant lamp before my bones, 
"When I am gathcr'd to the glorious saints. 



140 ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 

While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain 
Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a cloudlike change, 
In passing, with a grosser film made thick 
These heavy, horny eyes. The end ! the end ! 
Surely the end ! What 's here ? a shape, a shade, 
A flash of light. Is that the angel there 
That holds a crown ? Come, blessed brother, come. 
I know thy glittering face. I waited long ; 
My brows are ready. What ! deny it now ? 
Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ ! 
'T is gone : 't is here again ; the crown ! the crown ! 
So noAV 't is fitted on and grows to me, 
And from it melt the dews of Paradise, 
Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm, and frankincense. 
Ah ! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints : I trust 
That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven. 

Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God, 
Among you there, and let him presently 
Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft. 
And climbing up into my airy home. 
Deliver me the blessed sacrament ; 
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, 
I prophesy that I shall die to-night, 
A quarter before twelve. 

But thou, O Lord, 
Aid all this foolish people; let them take 
Example, pattern : lead them to thy light. 




THE TALKING OAK. 

OxcE more the gate behind me falls 
Once more before my fice 

I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls, 
That stand within the chace. 



Beyond the lodge the city lies, 
Beneath its drift of smoke ; 

And ah ! Avith what delighted eyes 
I turn to yonder oak. 

For when my passion first began, 
Ere that, which in me bnrn'd, 

The love, that makes me thrice a man, 
Could hope itself return'd ; 

To yonder oak within the field 

I spoke without restraint, 
And with a larger faith appeal'd 

Than Papist unto Saint. 

For oft I talk'd with him apart, 
And told him of my choice. 

Until he plagiarized a heart, 
And answer'd with a voice. 



Tho' what he whisper'd, under Heaven 
None else could understand ; 

I found him garrulously given, 
A babbler in the land. 



142 THK TALKING OAK. 

But since I heard him make reply 

Is many a weary hour ; 
'T were well to question him, and try 

If yet he keeps the power. 

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, 
Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, 

Whose topmost branches can discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

Say thou, whereon I carved her name, 

If ever maid or spouse. 
As fair as my Olivia, came 

To rest beneath thy boughs. — 

" O Walter, I have shelter'd here 

Whatever maiden grace 
The good old Summers, year by year. 

Made ripe in Sunnier-chace : 

" Old Summers, when the monk was fat, 
And, issuing shorn and sleek, 

Would twist his girdle tight, and pat 
The girls upon the cheek, 

" Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, 
And numbered bead, and shrift, 

Bluff Harry broke into the spence. 
And turn'd the cowls adrift : 

"And I have seen some score of those 
Fresh faces, that woiild thrive 

When his man-minded offset rose 
To chase the' deer at five ; 

"And all that from the town would stroll. 
Till that wild wind made work 

In which the gloomy brewer's soul 
Went by me, like a stork : 

" The slight she-slips of loyal blood, 
And others, passing praise, 

Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud 
For puritanic stays : 



i 



THE TALKING OAK. 1 4o 

"And I have shadow 'd many a group 

Of beauties, that were born 
In teacup-times of hood and hoop, 

Or while the patch was worn ; 

"And, leg and arm with love-knots gay, 

About me leap'd and laugh'd 
The modish Cupid of the day, 

And shrill'd his tinsel shaft. 

" I swear (and else may insects prick 

Each leaf into a gall) 
This girl, for whom your heart is sick, 

Is three times worth them all ; 

" For those and theirs, by Nature's law, 

Have faded long ago ; 
But in these latter springs I saw 

Your own Olivia blow, 

" From when she gamboll'd on the greens, 

A baby-germ, to when 
The maiden blossoms of her teens 

Could number five from ten. 

" I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, 

(And hear me with thine ears,) 
That, tho' I circle in the grain 

Five hundred rings of years — 

" Yet, since I first could cast a shade, 

Did never creature pass 
So slightly, musically made. 

So light upon the grass : 

" For as to fairies, that will flit 

To make the greensward fresh, 
I hold them exquisitely knit. 

But far too spare of flesh." 

Oh, hide thy knotted knees in fern, 

And overlook the chace ; 
And fi'om thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place. 



144 THE TALKING OAK. 

But thou, whereon I carved her name, 
That oft hast heard my vows, 

Declare when last Olivia came 
To sport beneath thy boughs. 

" O yesterday, you know, the lair 

Was holden at the town ; 
Her father left his good arm-chair. 

And rode his hunter down. 

"And with him Albert came on his. 

I look'd at him with joy : 
As cowslip unto oxlip is, 

So seems she to the boyv^ 

"An hour had past — and, sitting straight 
Within the low-wheel'd chaise. 

Her mother trundled to the gate 
Behind the dapple grays. 

" But, as for her, she stay'd at home, 
And on the roof she went, 

And down the way you use to come, 
She look'd with discontent. 

" She left the novel half uncut 

Upon the rosewood shelf; 
She left the new piano shut : 

She could not please herself. 

" Then ran she, gameson as the colt, 

And livelier than a lark 
She sent her voice thro' all the holt 

Before her, and the park. 

"A light wind chased her on the wing, 
And in the chase grew wild. 

As close as might be would he cling 
About the darling child : 

" But light as any wind that blows \ 

So fleetly did she stir. 
The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and rose. 

And turn'd to look at her. 



THE TALKING OAK. 145 

"And liere she came, and round me play'd, 

And sang to me the whole 
Of those three stanzas that you made 

About my ' giant bole ; ' 

"And in a fit of frolic mirth 

She strove to span my waist ; 
Alas, I was so broad of girth, 

I could not be embraced. 

" I wish'd myself the fair young beech 

That here beside me stands, 
That round me, clasping each in each, 

She might have lock'd her hands. 

" Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as sweet 

As woodbine's fragile hold, 
Or when I feel about my feet 

The berried briony fold." 

O muffle round thy knees with fern. 

And shadow Sumner-chace ! 
Long may thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

But tell me, did she read the name 

I carved with many vows 
When last with throbbing heart I came 

To rest beneath thy boughs ? 

" O yes, she wander'd round and round 

These knotted knees of mine. 
And found, and kiss'd the name she found. 

And sweetly murmur'd thine. 

"A tear-drop trembled from its source. 

And down my surface crept. 
My sense of touch is something coarse. 

But I beheve she wept. 

" Then flush'd her cheek with rosy light. 

She glanced across the plain ; 
But not a creature was in sight : 

She kiss'd me once again. 



10 



146 THE TALKING OAK. 

" Her kisses were so close and kind, 
That, trust me on my word. 

Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind. 
But yet my sap was stirr'd : 

"And even into my inmost ring 

A pleasure I discern'd. 
Like those blind motions of the Spring, 

That show the year is turn'd. 

" Thrice-happy he that may caress 
The ringlet's waving balm — 

The cushions of whose touch may press 
The maiden's tender palm. 

" I, rooted here among the groves, 

But languidly adjust 
My vapid vegetable loves 

With anthers and with dust : 

" For ah ! my friend, the days were brief 

Whereof the poets talk. 
When that, which breathes within the leaf, 

Could slip its bark and walk. 

" But could I, as in times foregone, 
From spray, and branch, and stem, 

Have suck'd and gather'd into one 
The life that spreads in them, 

" She had not found me so remiss ; 

But lightly issuing thro', 
I would have paid her kiss for kiss. 

With usury thereto." 

O flourish high, with leafy towers, 

And overlook the lea, 
Pursue thy loves among the bowers, 

But leave thou mine to me. 

O flourish, hidden deep in fern, 

Old oe.k, I love thee well ; 
A thousand thanks for what I learn 

And what remains to tell. 



THE TALKING OAK. 147 

" 'T is little more : the day was warm ; 

At last, tired out with play, 
She sank her head upon her arm, 

And at my feet she lay. 

" Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eaves ; 

I breathed upon her eyes 
Thro' all the summer of my leaves 

A Avelcome mix'd with sighs. 

" I took the swarming sound of life — 

The music from the town — 
The murmurs of the drum and fife 

And lull'd them in my own. 

" Sometimes 1 let a sunbeam slip. 

To light her shaded eye ; 
A second flutter'd round her lip 

Like a golden butterfly ; 

"A third would glimmer on her neck 

To make the necklace shine ; 
Another slid, a sunny fleck. 

From head to ankle fine. 

" Then close and dark my arms I spread. 

And shadow'd all her rest — 
Dropt dews upon her golden head, 

An acorn in her breast. 

" But in a pet she started up. 

And pluck'd it out, and drew 
My little oakling fi:om the cup, 

And flung him in the dew. 

"And yet it was a graceful gift — 

I felt a pang within 
As when I see the woodman lift 

His axe to slay my kin. 

" I shook him down because he was 

The finest on the tree. 
He lies beside thee on the grass. 

O kiss him once for me. 



148 THE TALKING OAK. 

" O kiss him twice and thrice for nie, 
That have no lips to kiss, 

For never yet was oak on lea 
Shall grow so fair as this." 

Step deeper yet in herb and fern, 
Look further thro' the chace, 

Spread upward till thy boughs discern 
The front of Sumner-place. 

This fruit of thine by Love is blest, 

That but a moment lay 
Where fairer fruit of Love may rest 

Some happy future day. 

I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, 
The warmth it thence shall win 

To riper life may magnetize 
The baby-oak within. 

But thou, while kingdoms overset, 
Or lapse from hand to hand, 

Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet 
Thine acorn in the land. 

May never saw dismember thee. 
Nor wielded axe disjoint, 

That art the fairest-spoken tree 
From here to Lizard-point. 

O rock upon thy towery top 
All throats that gurgle sweet ! 

All starry culmination drop 
Balm-dews to bathe thy feet ! 

All grass of silky feather grow — 
And while he sinks or swells 

The full south-breeze around thee blow 
The sound of minster-bells. 

The fat earth feed thy branchy root, 
That under deeply strikes ! 

The northern morning o'er thee shoot, 
High up, in silver spikes ! 



LOVE AND DUTY. 149 

Xor ever lightning char thy grain, 

But, rolling as in sleep, 
LoAv thunders bring the mellow rain. 

That makes thee broad and deep ! 

And hear me swear a solemn oath. 

That only by thy side 
Will I to Olive plight my troth. 

And gain her for my bride. 

And when my marriage-morn may fall, 

She, Dryad-like, shall wear 
Alternate leaf and acorn-ball 

In wreath about her hair. 

And I will work in prose and rhyme. 

And praise thee more in both 
Than bard has honor'd beech or lime. 

Or that Thessahan growth. 

In which the swarthy ringdove sat, 

And mystic sentence spoke ; 
And more than England honors that. 

Thy famous brother-oak. 

Wherein the younger Charles abode 

Till all the paths were dim, 
And far below the Roundhead rode. 

And humm'd a surly hymn. 



LOVE AND DUTY. 

Of love that never found his earthly close, 

AVhat sequel ? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts ? 

Or all the same as if he had not been ? 

Not so. Shall Error in the round of time 
Still father Truth ? O shall the braggart shout 
For some blind glimpse of freedom work itself 
Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to law, 
System and empire ? Sin itself be found 
The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun ? 
And only he, this wonder, dead, become 
Mere highway dust ? or year by year alone 



150 LOVE AND DUTY. 

Sit brooding in the ruins of a life, 
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself? 

If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all, 
Better the narrow brain, the stony heart. 
The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless days, 
The long mechanic pacings to and fro. 
The set gray life, and apathetic end. 
But am I not the nobler thro' thy love ? 
O three times less unworthy ! likewise thou 
Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy years. 
The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon 
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring 
The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit 
Of wisdom. Wait : my faith is large in Time, 
And that which shapes it to some perfect end. 

Will some one say, then why not ill for good ? 
Why took ye not your pastime ? To that man 
My work shall answer, since I knew the right 
And did it ; for a man is not as God, 
But then most Godlike being most a man. 
— So let me think 't is well for thee and me — 
Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine 
Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow 
To feel it ! For how hard it seem'd to me, 
When eyes, love-languid thro' half-tears, would dwell 
One earnest, earnest moment upon mine. 
Then not to dare to see ! when thy low voice, 
Faltering, would break its syllables, to keep 
My own full-tuned, — hold passion in a leash, 
And not leap forth and fall about thy neck, 
And on thy bosom, (deep-desired relief!) 
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh'd 
Upon my brain, my senses and my soul ! 

For Love himself took part against himself 
To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love — 
O this world's curse — beloved but hated — came 
Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine, 
And crying, " Who is this ? behold thy bride," 
She pusli'd me from thee. 

If the sense is hard 
To alien ears, I did not speak to these — 
No, not to thee, but to thyself in me : 
Hard is my doom and thine : thou knowest it all. 

Could Love part thus ? was it not well to speak. 
To have spoken once ? It could not but be well. 



LOVE AND DUTY. lol 

The slow s-weet liom*s that bring us all things good, 
The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill, 
And all good things fi'om evil, brought the night 
In which we sat together and alone. 
And to the want, that hollow'd all the heart, 
Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye, 
That burn'd upon its object thro' such tears 
As flow but once a life. 

The trance gave way 
To those caresses, when a hundred times 
In that last kiss, which never was the last, 
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died. 
Then follow'd counsel, comfort, and the words 
That make a man feel strong in speaking truth ; 
Till now the dark was worn, and overhead 
Tlie lights of sunset and of sunrise mix'd 
In that brief night ; the summer night, that paused 
Among her stars to hear us ; stars that hung 
Love-charm'd to listen : all the wheels of Time 
Spun round in station, but the end had come. 

O then like those, who clench their nerves to rush 
Upon their dissolution, we two rose, 
There — closing like an individual life — 
In one blind cry of passion and of pain, 
Like bitter accusation ev'n to death. 
Caught up the whole of love and utter'd it, 
And bade adieu forever. 

Live — yet live — 
Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all 
Life needs for life is possible to will — 
Live happy ; tend thy flowers ; be tended by 
My blessing ! Should my Shadow cross thy thoughts 
Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou 
For calmer hours to Memory's darkest hold. 
If not to be forgotten — not at once — 
Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy dreams, 
O might it come like one that looks content. 
With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth, 
And point thee forward to a distant light. 
Or seem to lift a burden from thy heart 
And leave thee freer, till thou wake refresh'd, 
Then when the first low matin-chirp hath grown 
Full choir, and morning driv'n her plough of pearl 
Far furrowing into light the mounded rack, 
Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea. 



THE GOLDEN YEAR. 

Well, you shall have that song which Leonard wrote : 

It was last summer on a tour in Wales : 

Old James was with me : we that day had been 

Up Snowdon ; and I wish'd for Leonard there, 

And found him in Llanberis : then we crost 

Between the lakes, and clamber'd half way up 

The counter side ; and that same song of his 

He told me ; for I banter'd him, and swore 

They said he lived shut up within himself, 

A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days. 

That, setting the liow much before the Aow, 

Cry, like the daughters of the horseleech, '• Give, 

Cram us with all," but count not me the herd ! 

To which " They call me what they will," he said : 
" But I was born too late : the fair new forms. 
That float about the threshold of an age. 
Like truths of Science waiting to be caught — 
Catch me who can, and make the catcher crown'd — 
Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. 
But if you care indeed to listen, hear 
These measured words ^ my work of yestermorn. 

" We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move ; 
The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun ; 
The dark Earth follows wheel'd in her ellipse ; 
And human things returning on themselves 
Move onward, leading up the golden year. 

"Ah, tho' the times, when some new thought can bud, 
Are but as poets' seasons when they flower. 
Yet seas, that daily gain upon the shore, 
Have-ebb and flow conditioning their march, 
And slow and sure comes up the golden year. 

" When wealth no more shall rest in mounded heaps. 
But smit with fi^eer light shall slowly melt 
In many streams to fatten lower lands. 
And light shall spread, and man be liker man 
Thro' all the season of the golden year. 

" Shall eagles not be eagles ? wrens be wrens ? 
If all the world were falcons, what of that ? 
The wonder of the eagle were the less. 
But he not less the eagle. Happy days 
Roll onward, leading up the golden year. 

" Fly, happy happy sails and bear the Press ; 
Fly happy with the mission of the Cross ; 



ULYSSES. 153 

Knit land to land, and blowing havenward 
With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll, 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 

" But vre grow old. Ah ! when shall all men's good 
Be each man's rule, and universal Peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land, 
And like a lane of beams athwart the sea. 
Thro' all the circle of the golden year ? " 

Thus far he flow'd, and ended ; whereupon 
"Ah, folly ! " in mimic cadence answer'd James — 
"Ah, folly ! for it lies so far away. 
Not in our time, nor in our children's time, 
'T is like the second world to us that live ; 
'T were all as one to fix our hopes on Heaven 
As on this vision of the golden year." 

^y'].th. that he struck his staff against the rocks 
And broke it, — James, — you know him, — old, but fiill 
Of force and choler, and firm upon his feet, 
And like an oaken stock in winter woods, 
O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis : 
Then added, all in heat : 

" What stuff is this ! 
Old writers push'd the happy season back, — 
The more fools they, — we forward : dreamers both : 
You most, that in an age, when every hour 
Must sweat her sixty minutes to the death, 
Live on, God love us, as if the seedsman, rapt 
Upon the teeming harvest, should not dip 
His hand into the bag : but well I know 
That unto him who works, and feels he works. 
This same grand year is ever at the doors." 

He spoke ; and, high above, I heard them blast 
The steep slate-quarry, and the great echo flap 
And buffet round the hills from bluff to bluff. 



ULYSSES. 

It little profits that an idle king. 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

ISIatch'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race. 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 

I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 

Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy 'd 



154: ULYSSES. 

Greatly, have sufFer'd greatly, both with those 

That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when 

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 

Yext the dim sea : I am become a name ; 

For always roaming with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known ; cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments, 

Myself not least, but honor'd of them all ; 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met ; 

Yet all experience Is an arch wherethro' 

Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades 

Forever and forever when I move. 

How dull It is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnlsh'd, not to shine In use ! 

As tho' to breathe were Hfe. Life piled on Hfe 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains : but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things ; and vile It were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This Is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the Isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred In the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods. 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

There lies the port : the vessel puffs her sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, 
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old ; 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; 
Death closes all : but something ere the end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 155 

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : 

The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the deep 

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 

'T is not too late to seek a newer world. 

Push ofif, and sitting well in order smite 

The sounding friiTOws ; for my purpose holds 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down : 

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 

Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and tho' 

We are not now that strength which in old days 

Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, we are ; 

One equal temper of heroic hearts. 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is early 

morn : 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the 

bugle-horn. 

'T is the place, and aU around it, as of old, the curlews call, 
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley 
HaU; 

Locksley HaU, that in the distance overlooks the sandy 

tracts. 
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to 

rest. 
Did. I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow 

shade. 
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sub- 
lime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time ; 



156 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

When the centuries behind mc like a fruitful land reposed ; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it 
closed : 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see ; 
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would 
be 

In the ^Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's 

breast ; 
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another 

crest ; 

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove ; 
In the Spring a J'oung man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts 
of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for 

one so young, 
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance 

hung. 

And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth 

to me, 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light, 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. 

And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm 

of sighs — 
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes — 

Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me 

wrong ; " 
Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin ? " weeping, " I have 

loved thee long." 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd It In his glow- 
ing hands ; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords 

with might ; 
Smote the chord of Self, 'that, trembling, pass'd In music 

out of siffht. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 157 

Many a morning on tlie moorland did we hear the copses 

ring, 
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the Mness of the 

Spring. 

Alany an evening by the watei^ did we watch the stately 

ships, 
And om: spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no more ! 
O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, barren 
shore ! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have 

sung, 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue ! 

Is it well to wish thee happy ? — having known me — to 

decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than 



Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day. 
What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with 
clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a 

clown. 
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag 

thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its 

novel force. 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his 

horse. 

What is this ? his eyes are heavy : think not they are glazed 

with wine. 
Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand in 

thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought ; 
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy 
lighter thought. 



158 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, the' I slew thee with my 
hand! 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's dis- 
grace, 
Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of 

youth ! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living 

truth ! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's 

rule ! 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the 

fool! 

Well — 't is well that I should bluster ! — Hadst thou less 

unworthy proved — 
Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever wife 

was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter 

fruit ? 
I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years 

should come 
As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery 

home. 

Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the mind ? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, 
kind ? 

I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she speak and 

move : 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to 

love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she 

bore ? 
No — she never loved me truly : love is love for evermore. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 159 

Comfort ? comfort scorn'd of devils ! this is truth the poet 

sings, 
That a sorrow's croAvn of sorrow is remembering happier 

things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put 

to proof, 
In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the 

wall, 
AYhere the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise 

and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken 



To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt 
weep. 

Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whisper'd by the 

phantom years, 
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine 

ears ; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy 

pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy rest 

again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will 

cry. 
'T is a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee 

rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's 

breast. 

O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his 

due. 
Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the two. 

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part. 
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's 
heart. 



160 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

" They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was 
not exempt — 

Truly, she herself had suffer'd " — Perish in thy self-eon- 
tempt ! 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore should I 

care ? 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days 

like these ? 
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden 

keys. 

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets over- 
flow. 
I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do ? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, 
When the ranks are roU'd in vapor, and the winds are laid 
with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor 

feels, 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's 

heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, thou wondrous Mother- 
Age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the 

strife. 
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my 

life; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years 

would yield, 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's 

field, , 

And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer 

drawn. 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary 

dawn ; 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 161 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him 

then, 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of 

men ; 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something 

new: 
That which they have done but earnest of the things that 

they shall do : 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see. 
Saw the Vision' of the world, and all the wonder that would 
be; 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic 

sails. 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly 

bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a 

ghastly dew 
From the nations', airy navies grappling in the central blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing 

warm, 
With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the 

thunder-storm ; 

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags 

were furl'd 
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm 

in awe, 
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. ^. 

So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me 
dry, 

Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaun- 
diced eye ; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of 

joint : 
Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on fi-om point 

to point : 
11 



162 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher, 
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly dying 
fire. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs, 
And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of 
the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful 

joys, 
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat forever like a boy's ? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the 

shore, 
And the individual withers, a-nd the world is more and 

more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden 

breast, 
FuU of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his 

rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle- 
horn. 

They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their 
scorn : 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd 

string ? 
I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a 

thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's pleasure, 

woman's pain — 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower 

brain : 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with 

mine. 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some 

retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to 

beat ; 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 163 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd ; — 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish micle's 
ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far 

away, 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy 

skies, 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of 

Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag. 
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer 
from the crag ; 

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited 

tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this 

march of mind, 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake 

mankind. 

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and 

breathing-space ; 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky 

race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd they shall dive, and they shall 

run, 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in 

the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the 

brooks, 
Not with bhnded eyesight poring over miserable books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my words arc 

wild. 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian 

child. 



164 LOCKSLEY HALL. 

/, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious 

gains, 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower 

pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or 

clime ? 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — 

I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, 
Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in 
Ajalon ! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us 

range. 
Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves 

of change. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger 

day: 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 

Mother- Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life 

begun : 
Rift the hills, and roll the Avaters, flash the lightnings, weigh 

the Sun — 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley 

Hall ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree 

fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and 

holt, 
Cramming aU the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or 

snow ; 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. 



GODIVA. 

T icaited for tlie train at. Coventry; 

I hung with grooins and porters on the bridge, 

To watch the three tall spires ; and there I shaped 

The city's ancient legend into this: — 

!Not only we, the latest seed of Time, 
New men, that in the flying of a wheel 
Cry down the past, not only we, that prate 
Of rights and wrong-s, have loved the people well, 
And loathed to see them overtax'd ; but she 
Did more, and vmderwent, and overcame, 
The woman of a thousand summers back, 
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled 
In Coventry : for when he laid a tax 
Upon his town, and all the mothers brought 
Their children, clamoring, " If we pay, we starve ! " 
She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode 
About the hall, among his dogs, alone. 
His beard a foot before him, and his hair 
A yard behind. She told him of their tears, 
And pray'd him, " If they pay this tax, they starve." 
Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed, 
" You would not let your little finger ache 
For such as these ? " — " But I would die," said she. 
He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by Paul : 
Then fillip'd at the diamond in her ear ; 
" O ay, ay, ay, you talk ! " — "Alas ! " she said, 
" But prove me what it is I would not do." 
And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand, 
He answer'd, " Hide you naked thro' the town, 
And I repeal it ; " and nodding, as in scorn, 
He parted, with great strides among his dogs. 

So left alone, the passions of her mind. 
As winds fi-om all the compass shift and blow, 
Made war upon each other for an hour, 
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth, 
And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all 
The hard condition ; but that she would loose 
The people : therefore, as they loved her well, 
From then till noon no foot should pace the street, 
No eye look down, she passing ; but that all 
Should keep within, door shut, and window barr'd. 

Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there 



1G6 



Unclasp'd the AveddeJ ea<^!es of lier belt. 
The grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a breath 
She linger'd, looking like a summer moon 
Half-dipt in cjoud: anon she shook her head, 
And showcr'd the rippled ringlets to her knee 
Unclad herself in haste ; adown the stair 
Stole on ; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid 
From pillar' unto pillar, until she reaeh'd 




Tjie gateway ; tlicre she found her palfrey tra})t 
In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. 

Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity 
The deep air listen'd round her as she. rode, 
And all the low wind hardly breathed for iear. 



THE TWO VOICES. 167 

The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the spout 
Had cunning eyes to see : the barking cur 
Made her cheek flame : her palfrey's footfall shot 
Light horrors thro' her pulses : the blind walls 
Were full of chinks and holes ; and overhead 
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : but she 
Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw 
The white-flower'd elder-thicket from the field 
Gleam thro' the Gothic archAvays in the wall. 

Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity ; 
And one low churl, compact of thankless earth, 
The fatal byword of all years to come, 
Boring a little augur-hole in fear, 
Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had their will. 
Were shrivell'd into darkness in his head. 
And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait 
On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense misused ; 
And she, that knew not, pass'd : and all at once, 
With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon 
W^as clash'd and hammer'd from a hundred towers, 
One after one : bat even then she gain'd 
Her bower ; whence reissuing, robed and crown'd, 
To meet her lord, she took the tax away, 
And built herself an everlastina: name. 



THE TWO VOICES. 

A STILL small voice spake unto me, 
" Thou art so full of misery, 
Were it not better not to be ? " 

Then to the still small voice I said ; 
" Let me not cast in endless shade 
What is so wonderfully made." 

To which the voice did urge reply ; 

" To-day I saw the dragon-fly 

Come from the wells where he did lie." 

"An inner impulse rent the veil 
Of his old husk : from head to tail 
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. 



168 THE TWO VOICES. 

" He dried his wings : like gauze they grew 
Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light he flew." 

I said, " When first the world began, 
Young Nature thro' five cycles ran. 
And in the sixth she moulded man. 

" She gave him mind, the lordliest 
Proportion, and, above the rest. 
Dominion in the head and breast." 

Thereto the silent voice replied ; 

" Self-blinded are you by your pride : 

Look up thro' night : the world is wide. 

" This truth within thy mind rehearse, 

That in a boundless universe 

Is boundless better, boundless worse. 

" Think you this mould of hopes and fears 
Could find no statelier than his peers 
In yonder hundred million spheres ? " 

It spake, moreover, in my mind : 

" Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind, 

Yet is there plenty of the kind." 

Then did my response clearer fall : 
<' No compound of this earthly ball 
Is like another, all in all." 

To which he answer'd scoffingly ; 

" Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee, 

Who '11 weep for thy deficiency ? 

" Or will one beam be less intense, 

When thy peculiar difference 

Is cancell'd in the world of sense ? " 

I would have said, " Thou canst not know," 
But my full heart, that work'd below, 
Rain'd thro' my sight its overflow. 

Again the voice spake -unto me : 
" Thou art so steep'd in misery, 
Surely 't were better not to be. 



THE TWO VOICES. 169 

" Thine angiiisli will not let thee sleep, 

l!^or any train of reason keep : 

Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep." 

I said, '• The years with change advance : 
If I make dark my countenance, 
I shut my life from happier chance. 

" Some turn this sickness yet might take, 
Ev'n yet." But he : " What drug can make 
A wither'd palsy cease to shake ? " 

I wept, " Tho' I should die, I know 
That all about the thorn will blow 
In tufts of rosy-tinted snow ; 

"And men, thro' novel spheres of thought 
Still moving after truth long sought, 
Will learn new things when I am not." 

" Yet," said the secret voice, " some time. 
Sooner or later, will gray prime 
Make thy grass hoar with early rime. 

" Not less swift souls that yearn for light. 

Rapt after heaven's starry flight. 

Would sweep the tracts of day and night. 

" Not less the bee would range her cells. 
The fiirzy prickle fire the dells, 
The foxglove cluster dappled bells." 

I said that " all the years invent ; 
Each month is various to present 
The world wnth some development. 

" Were this not well, to bide mine hour, 
Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower 
How grows the day of human power ? " 

" The highest-mounted mind," he said, 
" Still sees the sacred morning spread 
The silent summit overhead. 

" WiU thirty seasons render plain 
Those lonely lights that still remain, 
Just breaking over land and main ? 



170 THE TWO VOICES. 

" Or make that mom, from his cold crown 
And crystal silence creeping down, 
Flood with full da}'light glebe and town ? 

" Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let 

Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set 

In midst of knowledge, dream'd not yet. 

" Thou hast not gain'd a real height, 
Nor art thou nearer to the light, 
Because the scale is infinite. 

" 'T were better not to breathe or speak. 
Than cry for strength, remaining weak. 
And seem to find, but still to seek. 

" Moreover, but to seem to find 

Asks what thou lackest, thought resign'd, 

A healthy frame, a quiet mind." 

I said, " When I am gone away, 
' He dared not tarry,' men will say, 
Doing dishonor to my clay." 

" This is more vile," he made reply, 

" To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh. 

Than once from dread of pain to die. 

" Sick art thou — a divided will 
Still heaping on the fear of ill 
The fear of men, a coAvard still. 

" Do men love thee ? Art thou so bound 
To men, that how thy name may sound 
Will vex thee lying underground ? 

" The memory of the wither'd leaf 
In endless time is scarce more brief 
Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf 

" Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust ; 
The right ear, that is fill'd with dust, 
Hears little of the false or just." 

" Hard task, to pluck resolve," I cried, 
" From emptiness and the waste wide 
Of that abyss, or scornful pride ! 



THE TWO VOICES. 171 

" Nay — rather yet that I could raise 
One hope that warm'd me in the days 
While still I yearn'd for human praise. 

" When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, 
Among the tents I paused and sung, 
The distant battle flash'd and rung. 

" I sung the joyful Paean clear. 

And, sitting, burnish'd without fear 

The brand, the buckler, and the spear — 

" Waiting to strive a happy strife. 
To war with falsehood to the knife. 
And not to lose the good of life — 

" Some hidden principle to move. 

To put together, part and prove, 

And meet the bounds of hate and love — 

"As far as might be, to carve out 
Free space for every human doubt, 
That the whole mind might orb about — 

" To search thro' all I felt or saw. 
The springs of life, the depths of awe, 
And reach the law within the law : 

"At least, not rotting like a weed. 
But, having sown some generous seed, 
Fruitful of forther thought and deed, 

" To pass, when Life her light withdraws. 
Not void of righteous self-applause. 
Nor in a merely selfish cause — 

" In some good cause, not in mine own. 
To perish, wept for, honor'd, known. 
And like a warrior overthrown ; 

" WTiose eyes are dim with glorious tears. 
When, soil'd with noble dust, he hears 
Ilis country's war-song thrill his ears : 

" Then dying of a mortal stroke. 
What time the foeman's line is broke, 
And all the war is roll'd in smoke." 



172 THE TWO VOICES. 

" Yea ! " said the voice, " thy dream was good, 
While thou abodest in the bud. 
It was the stirring of the blood. 

" If Nature put not forth her power 
About the opening of the flower, 
Who is it that could live an hour ? 

" Then comes the check, the change, the fall. 
Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. 
There is one remedy for all. 

" Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, 
Link'd month to month with such a chain 
Of knitted purport, all were vain. 

" Thou hadst not between death and birth 
Dissolved the riddle of the earth. 
So were thy labor little- worth 

" That men with knowledge merely play'd, 
I told thee — hardly nigher made, 
Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade ; 

" Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind, 
Named man, may hope some truth to find, 
That bears relation to the mind. 

" For every worm beneath the moon 
Draws different threads, and late and soon 
Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. 

" Cry, faint not : either Truth is born 
Beyond the polar gleam forlorn, 
Or in the gateways of the morn. • 

" Cry, faint nOt, climb : the summits slope 
Beyond the furthest flights of hope, 
Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope. 

" Sometimes a little corner shines, 

As over rainy mist inclines 

A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 

"I will go forward, sayest thou, 
I shall not fail to find her now. 
Look up, the fold is on her brow. 



THE TWO VOICES. 178 

" If straight thy track, or if oblique, 

Thou know'st not. Shadows thou dost strike, 

Embracing cloud, Ixion-like ; 

"And owning but a little more 
Than beasts, abidest lame mid poor, 
Calling thyself a little lower 

" Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl ! 
Why inch by inch to darkness crawl ? 
There is one remedy for all." 

" O dull, one-sided voice," said I, 
" Wilt thou make everything a lie, 
To flatter me that I may die ? 

" I knoAv that age to age succeeds. 
Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, 
A dust of systems and of creeds. 

" I cannot hide that some have striven, 
Achieving calm, to whom was given 
The joy that mixes man with Heaven : 

" Who, rowing hard against the stream, 
Saw distant gates of Eden gleam. 
And did not dream it was a dream ; 

" But heard, by secret transport led, 
Ev'n in the charnels of the dead, 
The murmur of the fountain-head — 

" Which did accomplish their desire, 
Bore and forbore, and did not tire. 
Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 

" He heeded not reviling tones. 

Nor sold his heart to idle moans, 

Tho' cursed and scorn'd, and bruised with ston^ : 

" But looking upward, full of grace. 
He pray'd, and from a happy place 
God's glory smote him on the face." 

The sullen answer slid betwixt : 

" Not that the grounds of hope were fix'd, 

The elements were kindlier mix'd." 



174 THE TWO VOICES. 

I said, " I toil beneath the curse, 
But, knowing not the universe, 
I fear to slide from bad to worse. 

"And that, in seeking to undo 
One riddle, and to find the true, 
I knit a hundred others new : 

" Or that this anguish fleeting hence, 
Unmanacled from bonds of sense, 
Be fix'd and froz'n to permanence: 

" For I go, weak from suffering here ; 
Kaked I go, and void of cheer : 
What is it that I may not fear ? " 

" Consider well," the voice replied, 

" His face, that two hours since hath died 

Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride ? 

" Will he obey when one commands ? 
Or answer should one press his hands ? 
He answers not, nor understands. 

" His palms are folded on his breast : 
There is no other thing express'd 
But long disquiet merged in rest. 

" His lips are very mild and meek : 
Tho' one should smite him on the cheek. 
And on the mouth, he will not speak. 

"His little daughter, whose sweet face 
He kiss'd, taking his last embrace, 
Becomes dishonor to her race — 

" His sons grow up that bear his name, 
Some grow to honor, some to shame, — 
But he Is chill to praise or blame. 

" He Avill not hear the north-wind rave, 
Nor, moaning, household shelter crave 
From winter rains that beat his grave. 

" High up the vapors fold and swim : 
About him broods the twilight dim : 
The place he knew forgetteth him." 



THE TWO VOICES. 175 

" If all be dark, vague Toice," I said, 

" These things are wrapt in doubt and dread, 

Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. 

" The sap dries up : the plant declines. 

A deeper tale my heart divines. 

Know I not Death ? the outward signs ? 

" I found him when my years were few ; 
A shadow on the graves I knew, 
And darkness in the village yew. 

" From grave to grave the shadow crept : 
In her still place the morning wept : 
Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. 

" The simple senses crown'd his head : 
* Omega ! thou art Lord,' they said, 
' We find no motion in the dead.' 

" Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, 
Should that plain fact, as taught by these. 
Not make him sure that he shall cease ? 

" Who forged that other influence, 

That heat of inward evidence. 

By which he doubts against the sense ? 

" He owns the fatal gift of eyes, 
That read his spirit blindly wise. 
Not simple as a thing that dies. 

" Here sits he shaping wings to fly : 
His heart forebodes a mystery : 
He names the name Eternity. 

" That type of Perfect in his mind 
In Nature can he nowhere find. 
He sows himself on every wind. 

" He seems to hear a Heavenly Frieud, 
And thro' thick veils to apprehend 
A labor working to an end. 

'* The end and the beginning vex 
His reason : many things perplex, 
With motions, checks, and counterchecks. 



176 THE TWO VOICES. 

" He knows a baseness in his blood 

At such strange war with something good, 

He may not do the thing he would. 

" Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn. 
Vast images in glimmering dawn, 
Half shown, are broken and withdrawn. 

"Ah ! sure within him and without, 
Could his dark wisdom find it out, 
There must be answer to his doubt. 

" But thou canst answer not again. 
With thine own weapon art thou slain, 
Or thou wilt answer but in vain. 

" The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. 
In the same circle we revolve. 
Assurance only breeds resolve." 

As when a billow, blown against, 

Falls back, the voice with which I fenced 

A little ceased, but recommenced. 

" Where wert thou when thy father play'd 
In his free field, and pastime made, 
A merry boy in sun and shade ? 

A merry boy they called him then, 
He sat upon the knees of men 
In days that never come again. 

" Before the little ducts began 

To feed thy bones with lime, and ran 

Their course, till thou wert also man : 

" Who took a wife, who rear'd his race, 
Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face. 
Whose troubles number with his days : 

"A life of nothings, nothing worth, 
From that first nothing ere his birth 
To that last nothing under earth ! " 

" These words," I said, " are like the rest, 
No certain clearness, but at best 
A vague suspicion of the breast : 



THE TWO VOICES. 171 

" But if I grant, thou might'st defend 
The thesis which thy words intend — 
That to begin implies to end ; 

" Yet how should I for certain hold, 
Because my memory is so cold, 
That I first was in human mould ? 

" I cannot make this matter plain, 
But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, 
A random arrow from the brain. 

" It may be that no life is found, 
Which only to one engine bound 
Falls off, but cycles always round. 

"As old mythologies relate. 

Some drauo-ht of Lethe mio-ht await 

The slipping thro' from state to state. 

"As here we find in trances, men 
Forget the dream that happens then. 
Until they fall in trance again. 

" So might we, if our state were such 

As one before, remember much, 

For those two likes might meet and touch. 

" But, if I lapsed fi-om nobler place. 
Some legend of a fallen race 
Alone might hint of my disgrace ; 

" Some vague emotion of delight 

In gazing up an Alpine height, 

Some yearning toward the lamps of night. 

" Or if thro' lower lives I came — 
Tho' all experience past became 
Consolidate in mind and fame — 

" I might forget my weaker lot ; 
For is not our first year forgot ? 
The haunts of memory echo not. 

"And men, whose reason long was blind, 
From cells of madness unconfined, 
Oft lose whole years of darker mind. 
12 



178 THE TWO VOICES. 

" Much more, if first I floated free, 
As naked essence, must I be 
Incompetent of memory : 

" For memory dealing but with time, 
And he with matter, should she climb 
Beyond her own material prime ? 

" Moreover, something is or seems, 
That touches me with mystic gleams, 
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — 

" Of something felt, like something here ; 
Of something done, I know not where ; 
Such as no language may declare." 

The still voice laugh'd. " I talk," said he, 
" Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee 
Thy pain is a reality." 

" But thou," said I, " hast miss'd thy mark, 
Who sough t'st to wreck my mortal ark, 
By making all the horizon dark. 

" Why not set forth, if I should do 
This rashness, that which might ensue 
With this old soul in organs new ? 

" Whatever crazy sorrow saith, 

No life that breathes with human breath 

Has ever truly long'd for death. 

" 'T is life, whereof our nerves are scant, 

life, not death, for which we pant ; 
More life, and fuller, that I want." 

1 ceased, and sat as one forlorn. 
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, 
" Behold, it is the Sabbath morn." 

And I arose, and I released 

The casement, and the light increased 

With freshness in the dawning east. 

Like soften'd airs that blowing steal. 
When meres begin to uncongeal, 
The sweet church-bells began to peal. 



THE TWO VOICES. 179 

On to God's house the people prest : 
Passing the place where each must rest, 
Each enter'd like a welcome guest. 

One walk'd between his wife and child, 
With measured footfall firm and mild, 
And now and then he gravely smiled. 

The prudent partner of his blood 
Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good. 
Wearing the rose of womanhood. 

And in their double love secure. 
The little maiden walk'd demure. 
Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 

These three made unity so sweet. 
My fi^ozen heart began to beat. 
Remembering its ancient heat. 

I blest them, and they wander'd on : 
I spoke, but answer came there none : 
The dull and bitter voice was gone. 

A second voice was at mine ear, 

A little whisper silver clear, 

A murmur, "Be of better cheer." 

As from some blissful neighborhood, 

A notice faintly understood, 

" I see the end, and know the good." 

A little hint to solace woe, 

A hint, a whisper breathing low, 

" I may not speak of what I know." 

Like an ^Eolian harp that wakes 

No certain air, but overtakes 

Far thought with music that it makes : 

Such seem'd the whisper at my side : 

" What is it thou knowest, sweet voice ? " I cried. 

"A hidden hope," the voice replied : 

So heavenly toned, that in that hour 
From out my sullen heart a power 
Broke, like the rainbow from the shower, 



180 THE TWO VOICES. 

To feel, altho' no tongue can prove, 
That every cloud, that spreads above 
And veileth love, itself is love. 

And forth into the fields I went. 
And Nature's living motion lent 
The pulse of hope to discontent. 

I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, 
The slow result of winter showers : 
You scarce could see the grass for flowers. 



I wonder'd, while I paced along : 

The woods were fill'd so full with song. 

There seem'd no room for sense of wrong. 



So variously seem'd all things wrought, 
I marveird how the mind was brought 
To anchor by one gloomy thought ; 

And wherefore rather I made choice 
To commune with that barren voice, 
Than him that said, " Rejoice ! rejoice ! 




THE DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

O Lady Flora, let me speak : 

A pleasant hour has past away 
While, dreaming on your damask cheek, 

The dewy sister-eyelids lay. 
As by the lattice you reclined, 

I Avent thro' many wayward moods 
To see you dreaming — and, behind, 

A summer crisp with shining woods. 
And I too dream'd, until at last 

Across my fancy, brooding warm. 
The reflex of a legend past, 

And loosely settled into form. 
And would you have the thought I had, 

And see the vision that I saw, 
Then take the broidery-frame, and add 

A crimson to the quaint Macaw, 
And I will tell it. Turn your face. 

Nor look with that too earnest eye — 
Tiie rh}'mes are dazzled from their place, 

And order'd words asnnder fly. 



THE SLEEPING PALACE. 



1. 
Tirp: varying year with blade and sheaf 
Clothes and reclothes the happy plains 



182 THE DAY-DREAM. 

Here rests tlie sap within tlie leaf, 

Here stays the blood along the veins. 
Faint shadows, vapors lightly curl'd, 

Faint murmurs from the meadows come, 
Like hints and echoes of the world 

To spirits folded in the womb. 
2. 
Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 

On every slanting terrace-lawn. 
The fountain to his place returns 

Deep in the garden-lake withdrawn. 
Here droops the banner on the tower. 

On the hall-hearths the festal fires, 
The peacock in his laurel bower, 

The parrot in his gilded wires. 
3. 
Koof-haunting martins warm their eggs : 

In these, in those the life is stay'd. 
The mantles from the golden pegs 

Droop sleepily : no sound is made. 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

More like a picture seemeth all 
Than those old portraits of old kings. 

That watch the slee|)ers from the wall. 
4. 
Here sits the Butler with a flask 

BetAveen his knees, half-drain'd ; and then 
The wrinkled steward at his task, 

The maid-of-honor blooming fair ; 
The page has caught her hand in his : 

Her lips are sever'd as to speak : 
His own are pouted to a kiss : 

The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. 
5. 
Till all the hundred summers pass. 

The beams, that thro' the Oriel shine. 
Make prisms in every carven glass. 

And beaker brimm'd with noble wine. 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps, 

Grave faces gather'd in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps. 

He must have been a jovial king. 
6. 
All round a hedge upshoots, and shows 

At distance like a little wood ; 



THE DAY-DUEAM. 183 



Thorns, ivies, •woodbine, mislotoes. 

And grapes with bunches red as blood ; 

All creeping plants, a wall of green 

Close-matted, bur and brake and brier, 

And glimpsing over these, just seen, 
High up, the topmost palace-spire. 

7. 
When will the hundred summers die, 

And thought and time be born again, 
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, 

Bring truth that sways the soul of men r 
Here all things in their place remain, 

As all were order'd, ages since. 
Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, 

And bring the fated fairy Prince. 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 
1. 
Yp:ar after }'ear unto her feet, 

She lying on her couch alone, 
Across the purpled coverlet, 

The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, 
On either side her tranced form 

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl : 
The slumbrous light is rich and warm, 

And moves not on the rounded curl. 
2. 
Tlie silk star-broider'd coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould 
Languidly ever; and, amid 

Her full black ringlets downward roll'd, 
Glows forth each softly shadow'd arm 

With bracelets of the diamond bright: 
Her constant beauty doth inform 

Stillness with love, and day with light. 
3. 
She sleeps : her breathings are not heard 

In palace chambers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd 

That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps : on either hand upswells 

The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest : 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 

A perfect form in perfect rest. 



184 



TIIF. I)AY-I)ltKAM. 



TIIK ARRlYAFv. 

1. 
All pi'ecious things, dlscovord late, 

To those that seek them issue forth ; 
For lovQ in sequel works with fate, 

And draws the veil from hidden wortli. 




He travels far from other skies — 
His mantle glitters on the rocks — 

A fairy Prince, with joyfid eyes, 
And lighter-footed than the fox. 

2. 
The bodies and the bones of those 
That stro\e in other days to pass, 



THE DAY-DREAM. 185 

Are wither'd in the thorny close, 

Or scatter'd blanching on the grass. 
He gazes on the silent dead : 

" They perish'd in their daring deeds." 
This proverb flashes thro' his head, 

" The many fail : the one succeeds." 
3. 
He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks : 

He breaks the hedge : he enters there : 
The color flies into his cheeks : 

He trusts to light on something fiiir ; 
For all his life the charm did talk 

About his path, and hover near 
With words of promise in his walk. 

And whisper'd voices at his ear. 
4. 
More close and close his footsteps wind : 

The Magic Music in his heart 
Beats quick and quicker, till he find 

The quiet chamber far apart. 
His spirit flutters like a lark. 

He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee. 
" Love, if thy tresses be so dark, 

How dark those hidden eyes must be I " 



THE REVIVAL. 

1. 
A TOUCH, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 

There rose a noise of striking clocks. 
And feet that ran, and doors that clapt. 

And barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; 
A fuller light illumined all, 

A breeze thro' all the garden swept, 
A sudden hubbub shook the hall. 

And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 
2. 
The hedge broke in, the banner blew, 

The butler drank, the steward scraAvl'd, 
The fire shot up, the martin flew. 

The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd, 
The maid and page renew'd tlieir strife. 

The palace bang'd, and buzz'd, and clackt, 
And all the long-pent stream of life 

Dash'd downward in a cataract. 



186 THE DAY-DREAM. 

3. 

And last with these the king awoke, 

And in his chair himself uprear'd, 
And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke, 

" By holy rood, a royal beard ! 
How say you ? we have slept, my lords. 

My beard has grown into my lap." 
The barons swore, with many words, 

'T was but an after-dinner's nap. 
4. 
" Pardy," return'd the king, " but still 

My joints are somewhat stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the bill 

I mention'd half an hour ago ? " 
The chancellor, sedate and vain. 

In courteous words return'd reply : 
But dallied with his golden chain, 

And, smiling, put the question by. 



THE DEPARTURE. 

1. 

And on her lover's arm she leant. 

And round her waist she felt it fold, 
And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is the old : 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim. 
And deep into the dying day 

The happy princess follow'd him. 
2. 
" I 'd sleep another hundred years, 

O love, for such another kiss ; " 
" O wake forever, love," she hears, 

" O love, 't was such as this and this." 
And o'er them many a sliding star. 

And many a merry wind was borne. 
And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar. 

The twilight melted into morn. 
3. 
" O eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " 

" O happy sleep, that lightly lied ! " 
" O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! " 

" O love, thy kiss would wake the dead ! 



THE DAY-DREAM. 187 

And o'er tliem many a flowing range 

Of vapor buoy'd the crescent-bark, 
And, rapt thro' many a rosy change, 

The twilight died into the dark. 
4. 
"A hundred summers ! can it be ? 

And whither goest thou, tell me where ? " 
" O seek my father's court with me. 

For there are greater wonders there." 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
Beyond the night, across the day. 

Thro' all the world she follow'd him. 



MORAL. 

1. 
So, Lady Flora, take my lay. 

And if you find no moral there, 
Go, look in any glass and say. 

What moral is in being fair. 
Oh, to what uses shall we put 

The Avildweed-flower that simply blows ? 
And is there any moral shut 

Within the bosom of the rose ? 
2. 
But any man that walks the mead, 

In bud or blade, or bloom, may find. 
According as his humors lead, 

A meaning suited to his mind. 
And liberal applications lie 

In Art like Nature, dearest fi-iend ; 
So 't were to cramp its use, if I 

Should hook it to some useful end. 



L'ENVOI. 

1. 
You shake your head. A random string 

Your finer female sense offends. 
Well — were it not a pleasant thing 

To fall asleep with all one's friends ; 
To pass with all our social ties 

To silence from the paths of men ; 



188 THE DAY-DREAM. 

And every hundred years to rise 

And learn the world, and sleep again ; 
To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars, 

And wake on science grown to more, 
On secrets of the brain, the stars, 

As wild as aught of fairy lore ; 
And all that else the years will show, 

The Poet-forms of stronger hours. 
The vast Republics that may grow. 

The Federations and the Powers ; 
Titanic forces taking birth 

In divers seasons, divers climes ; 
For we are Ancients of the earth. 

And in the morning of the times. 
2. 
So sleeping, so aroused from sleep 

Thro' sunny decads new and strange, 
Or gay quinquenniads would we reap 

The flower and quintessence of change. 
3. 
Ah, yet would I — and would 1 might ! 

So much your eyes my fancy take — 
Be still the first to leap to light 



That I might kiss those eyes awake 



For, am I right, or am I wrong. 

To choose your own you did not care ; 
You 'd have my moral from the song. 

And I will take my pleasure there : 
And, am I right or am I wrong. 

My fancy, ranging thro' and thro'. 
To search a meaning for the song, 

Perforce will still revert to you ; 
Nor finds a closer truth than this 

All-graceful head, so richly curl'd. 
And evermore a costly kiss 

The prelude to some brighter world. 
4. 
For since the time when Adam first 

Embraced his Eve in happy hour. 
And every bird of Eden burst 

In carol, every bud to flower. 
What eyes, like thine, have waken'd hopes ? 

What lips, like thine, so sweetly join'd ? 
Where on the double rosebud droops 

The fulness of the pensive mind ; 



AMPHION. 189 

Which all too dearly self-involved, 

Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me; 
A sleep by kisses undissolved, 

That lets thee neither hear nor see : 
But break it. In the name of wife. 

And in the rights that name may give, 
Are clasp'd the moral of thy life, 

And that for which I care to live. 

EPILOGUE. 

So, Lady Flora, take my lay, 

And, if you find a meaning there, 
O whisper to your glass, and say, 

" What wonder, if he thinks me fair ? " 
What Avonder I was all unwise. 

To shape the song for your delight 
Like long-tail'd birds of Paradise, 

That float thro' Heaven, and cannot light ? 
Or old-world trains, upheld at court 

By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — 
But take it — earnest wed with sport, 

And either sacred unto you. 



AMPHION. 

My father left a park to me, 

But it is wild and barren, 
A garden too with scarce a tree 

And waster than a warren : 
Yet say the neighbors when they call, 

It is not bad but good land. 
And in it is the germ of all 

That grows within the woodland. 

O had I lived when song was great 

In days of old Amphion, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate. 

Nor cared for seed or scion ! 
And had I lived when song was great, 

And legs of trees were limber, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate. 

And fiddled in the timber ! 



190 AMPHION. 

'T is said he had a tuneful tongue, 

Such happy intonation, 
Wherever he sat down and sung 

He left a small plantation ; 
Wherever in a lonely grove 

He set up his forlorn pipes, 
The gouty oak began to move. 

And flounder into hornpipes. 

The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown, 

And, as tradition teaches, 
Young ashes pirouetted down 

Coquetting with young beeches ; 
And briony-vine and ivy-wreath 

Ran forward to his rhyming. 
And from the valleys underneath 

Came little copses climbing. 

The linden broke her ranks and rent 

The woodbine- wreaths that bind her, 
And down the middle buzz ! she went 

With all her bees behind her : 
The poplars, in long order due, 

With cypress promenaded, 
The shock-head willows two and two 

By rivers gallopaded. 

Came wet-shot alder from the wave, 

Came yews, a dismal coterie : 
Each pluck'd his one foot fi-om the grave, 

Poussetting with a sloe-tree : 
Old elms came breaking fr-om the vine. 

The vine stream'd out to follow, 
And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine 

From many a cloudy hoUow. 

And was n't it a sight to see. 

When, ere his song was ended. 
Like some great landslip, tree by tree. 

The country-side descended ; 
And shepherds from the mountain-eaves 

Look'd down, half-pleased, half-frighten'd, 
As dash'd about the drunken leaves 

The random sunshine lighten'd ! 



AMPHION. 191 

Oh, nature fii-st was fresh to men, 

And wanton without measure ; 
So youthful and so flexile then, 

You moved her at your pleasure. 
Twang out, my fiddle ! shake the twigs ! 

And make her dance attendance ; 
Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, 

And scirrhous roots and tendons. 

'T is vain ! in such a brassy age 

I could not move a thistle ; 
The very sparrows in the hedge 

Scarce answer to my whistle ; 
Or at the most, when three-parts sick 

With strumming and with scraping, 
A jackass heehaws from the rick. 

The passive oxen gaping. 

But what is that I hear ? a sound 

Like sleepy counsel pleading ; 
O Lord ! — 't is in my neighbor's ground, 

The modern Muses reading. 
They read Botanic Treatises, 

And Works on Gardening thro' there, 
And Methods of transplanting trees. 

To look as if they grew there. 

The wither'd jMisses ! how they prose 

O'er books of travell'd seamen, 
And show you slips of all that grows 

From England to Van Diemen. 
They read in arbors dipt and cut, 

And alleys, faded places, 
By squares of tropic summer shut 

And warra'd in crystal cases. 

But these, tho' fed with careful dirt. 

Are neither green nor sappy ; 
Half-conscious of the garden-squirt, 

The spindlings look unhappy. 
Better to me the meanest weed 

That blows upon its mountain. 
The vilest herb that runs to seed 

Beside its native fountain. 



192 ST.' AGNES' EVE. 

And I must work thro' months of toil, 
And years of cultivation, 

Upon my proper patch of soil 
To grow my own plantation. 

I '11 take the showers as they fall, 
^ I will not vex my bosom : 

Enough if at the end of all 
A little garden blossom. 



ST. AGNES' EVE. 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon : 
My breath to heaven like vapor goes : 

May my soul follow soon ! 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward, 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord : 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies. 
Or this first snowdrop of the. year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soil'd and dark. 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark. 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
So in mine earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen. 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star. 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go ; 
All Heaven bursts her starry floors. 

And strows her lights below, 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits. 

To make me pure of sin. 



Sli: (JAI.AIIAI) 



1 i>;i 




The sabl)atlis of Eternity, 

One sabbatli deep and wide — 

A lijxht npon the shining sea — 
Tlie Bridefjrooni with his bride ! 



SIR GALAHAD. 



My <rood blade carves the cas([ues of men, 
My tough htnce thrusteth sure, 

My strength is as the strength of ten. 
Because my heart is pure, 

Tlie shattering trumpet shriUetli liigli, 
1.3 



194 SIR GALAHAD. 

The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 

And when the tide of combat stands. 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favors fall ! 
For them I battle till the end. 

To save from shame and thrall : 
But all my heart is drawn above. 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine 
I never felt the kiss of love, 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports move and thrill; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims. 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns : 
Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 

I hear a voice, but none are there ; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean. 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 

And solemn chants resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark ; 
I leap on board : no helmsman steers : 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light ! 

Three angels bear the holy Grail : 
With folded feet, in stoles of white. 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars. 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 



;ii; GAI.AI1AI>. 



] 0,') 



A\'l;(.'ii on my goodly cliarg'oi' bonie 

Tlu-o" (li'caining towns 1 go, 
The cock crows ero the Christmas morn, 

The stivets are dumb ^vith snow. 
The tenij)est crackles on the leads, 

And. rino-ino-, springs from l)rand and mail 




But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 
And gilds the driving liail. 

T leave the plain, I climb the height ; 
No l)ranchy tliicket shelter yields ; 

P>Lit blessed forms in whistling storms 
I'lv o'er waste fens and wind\- fields 



106 EDWARD GKAY. 

A maiden knight — to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear ; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
1 muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odors haunt my dreams ; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand, 

This mortal armor that I wear, 
This weight and size, this heart and eyes, 

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod. 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
" O just and faithful knight of God ! 

Ride on ! the prize is near." 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, 

Until I find the holy Grail. 

EDWARD GRAY. 

Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town 
Met me wallcing on yonder way, 

"And have you lost your heart ? " she said ; 
"And are you married yet, Edward Gray ? '* 

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 

" Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 

" Ellen Adair she loved me well. 

Against her father's and mother's will : 

To-day I sat for an hour and wept, 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 

" Shy she was, and I thought her cold; 

Thought her proud, and fled over the sea; 



WILL waterproof's LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 19 1 

Fill'd I was with folly and spite, 

When Ellen Adair was dying for me. 

" Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 

Cruelly came tliey back to-day : 
' You 're too slight and fickle,' I said, 

' To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' 

" There I put my foce in the grass — 

Whispei-'d ' Listen t^o^my despair : 
I repent me of all I did : 

Speak a little, Ellen Adair ! * 

" Then I took a pencil, and wrote 

On the mossy stone, as I lay, 
' Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; 

And here the heart of Edward Gray ! ' 

" Love may come, and love may go, 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree : 

But I will love no more, no more, 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 

" Bitterly wept I over the stone : 

Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 
There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! 

And there the heart of Edward Gray ! " 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 

MADE AT THE COCK. 

O PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock, 

To which I most resort, 
How goes the time ? 'T is five o'clock. 

Go fetch a pint of port : 
But let it not be such as that 

You set before chance-comers, 
But such whose father-grape grew fat 

On Lusitanian summers. 

No vain libation to the Muse, 

But may she still be kind, 
And whisper lovely words, and use 

Her influence on the mind, 



198 wiTLL watekproof's lyrical monologue. 

To make me write my random rhymes, 

Ere they be half-forgotten ; 
Nor add and alter, many times, 

Till all be ripe and rotten. 

I pledge her, and she comes and dips 

Her laurel in the wine, 
And lays it thrice upon my lips, 

These favor'd lips of mine ; 
Until the charm have power to make 

New life-blood warm the bosom. 
And barren commonplaces break 

In full and kindly blossom. 

I pledge her silent at the board ; 

Her gradual fingers steal 
And touch upon the master-chord 

Of all I felt and feel. 
Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans. 

And phantom hopes assemble ; 
And that child's heart within the man's 

Begins to move and tremble. 

Thro' many an hour of summer suns 

By many pleasant ways. 
Against its fountain upward runs 

The current of my days : 
I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd ; 

The gas-light wavers dimmer ; 
And sofdy, thro' a vinous mist. 

My college friendships glimmer. 

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, 

Unboding critic-pen, 
Or that eternal want of pence, 

Which vexes public men. 
Who hold their hands to all, and cry 

For that which all deny them — 
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, 

And all the world go by them. 

Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake, 

Tho' fortune clip my wings, 
I will not cramp my heart, nor take 

Half-views of men and things. 



WILL waterproof's LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 199 

Let "Whig and Tory stir their blood ; 

There must be stormy weather ; 
But for some true result of good 

All parties work together. 

Let there be thistles, there are grapes ; 

If old things, there are new ; 
Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, 

Yet glimpses of the true. 
Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, 

We lack not rhymes and reasons, 
As on this whirligig of Time 

We circle with the seasons. 

This earth is rich in man and maid ; 

With fair horizons bound : 
This whole wide earth of light and shade 

Comes out, a perfect round. 
High over roaring Temple-bar, 

And, set in Heaven's third story, 
I look at all things as they are, 

But thro' a kind of glory. 



Head-waiter, honor'd by the guest 

Half-mused, or reeling ripe. 
The pint you brought me was the best 

That ever came from pipe. 
But tho' the port surpasses praise, 

My nerves have dealt with stiffer. 
Is there some magic in the place ? 

Or do my peptics differ ? 

For since I came to live and learn. 

No pint of white or red 
Had ever half the power to turn 

This wheel within my head, 
Which bears a season'd brain about, 

Unsubject to confusion, 
Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out. 

Thro' every convolution. 

For I am of a numerous house, 

With many kinsmen gay. 
Where long and largely we carouse 



200 WILL WATERPKOOr's LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 

As who shall say me nay : 
Each month, a birthday coming on, 

We drink defying trouble. 
Or sometimes two would meet in one, 

And then we drank it double ; 

Whether the vintage, yet unkept, 

Had relish fiery-new, 
Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept. 

As old as Waterloo ; 
Or stow'd (when classic Canning died) 

In musty bins and chambers. 
Had cast upon its crusty side 

The gloom of ten Decembers. 

The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is ! 

She answer'd to my call, 
She changes with that mood or this, 

Is all-in-all to all : 
She lit the spark within my throat. 

To make my blood run quicker, 
Used all her fiery will, and smote 

Her life into the liquor. 

And hence this halo lives about 

The waiter's hands, that reach 
To each his perfect pint of stout. 

His proper chop to each. 
He looks not like the common breed 

That with the napkin dally ; 
I think he came like Ganymede, 

From some delightful valley. 

The Cock was of a larger egg 

Than modern poultry drop, 
Stept forward on a firmer leg, 

And cramm'd a plumper crop ; 
Upon an ampler dunghill trod, 

Crow'd lustier late and early, 
Sipt wine from silver, praising God, 

And raked in golden barley. 

A private life was aU his joy. 

Till in a court he saw 
A something-pottle-bodied boy, 



I 



WILL waterproof's LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 201 

That knuckled at the taw : 
He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and good, 

Flew over roof and casement : 
His brothel's of the weather stood 

Stock-still for sheer amazement. 

But he, by farmstead, thorp e and spire, 

And foUow'd with acclaims, 
A sign to many a staring shire, 

Came crowing over Thames. 
Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, 

Till, where the street grows straiter. 
One fix'd forever at the door. 

And one became head-waiter. 



But whither would my fancy go ? 

How out of jDlace she makes 
The violet of a legend blow 

Among the chops and steaks ! 
'T is but a steward of the can, 

One shade more plump than common ; 
As just and mere a serving-man 

As any, born of woman. 

I ranged too high : what draws me down 

Into the common day ? 
Is it the weight of that half-crown, 

Which I shall have to pay ? 
For, something duller than at first. 

Nor wholly comfortable, 
I sit (my empty glass reversed). 

And thrumming on the table : 

Half fearful that, with self at strife 

I take myself to task ; 
Lest of the fulness of my life 

I lea^e an empty flask : 
For I had hope, by something rare. 

To prove myself a poet : 
But, while I plan and plan, my hair 

Is gray before I know it. 

So fares it since the years began. 
Till they be gather'd up ; 



202 WILL waterproof's lyrical monologue. 

The truth, that flies the flowing can, 

Will haunt the vacant cup ; 
And others' follies teach us not, 

Nor much their wisdom teaches ; 
And most, of sterling worth, is what 

Our own experience preaches. 

Ah, let the rusty theme alone ! 

We know not what we know. 
But for my pleasant hour, 't is gone, 

'TIs gone, and let It go. 
'T Is gone : a thousand such have slipt 

Away from my embraces. 
And fall'n into the dusty crypt 

Of darken'd forms and faces. 

Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went 

Long since, and came no more ; 
With peals of genial clamor sent 

From many a tavern-door, 
With twisted quirks and happy hits. 

From misty men of letters ; 
The tavern-hours of mighty wits — 

Thine elders and thy betters. 

Hours, when the Poet's words and looks 

Had yet their native glow : 
Nor yet the fear of little books 

Had made him talk for show ; 
But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd 

He flash'd his random speeches ; 
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd 

His literary leeches. 

So mix forever with the past. 

Like all good things on earth ! 
For should I prize thee, couldst thou last, 

At half thy real worth ? 
I hold it good, good things should pass : 

With time I will not quarrel : 
It Is but yonder empty glass 

That makes me maudlin-moral. 



WILL waterproof's LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 203 

Head-waiter of the cliop-house here, 

To which I most resort, 
I too must part : I hold thee dear 

For this good pint of port. 
For this, thou shalt from all things suck 

Marrow of mirth and laughter; 
And, wheresoe'er thou move, good luck 

Shall fling her old shoe after. 

But thou wilt never move from hence, 

The sphere thy fate allots : 
Thy latter days increased with pence 

Go down among the pots : 
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam 

In haunts of hungry sinners, 
Old boxes, larded with the steam 

Of thirty thousand dinners. 

We fret, we fume, would shift our skins, 

Would quarrel with our lot ; 
Thy care is, under polished tins, 

To serve the hot-and-hot ; 
To come and go, and come again, 

Returning like the pewit, 
And watch'd by silent gentlemen, 

That trifle with the cruet. 

Live long, ere from thy topmost head 

The thick-set hazel dies ; 
Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread 

The corners of thine eyes : 
Live long, nor feel in head or chest 

Our changeful equinoxes. 
Till mellow Death, like some late guest, 

Shall call thee from the boxes. 

But when he calls, and thou shalt cease 

To pace the gritted floor. 
And, laying down an unctuous lease 

Of life, shalt earn no more ; 
No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, 

Shall show thee past to heaven : 
But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, 

A pint-pot, neatly graven. 



TO , 

AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. 

" Cursed be he that moves my bones." 

Shakspeare''s Epitaph. 

You might have won the Poet's name, 
If such be worth the winning now, 
And gain'd a laurel for your brow 

Of sounder leaf than I can claim ; 

But you have made the wiser choice, 
A life that moves to gracious ends 
Thro' troops of unrecording friends, 

A deedful life, a silent voice : 

And you have miss'd the irreverent doom 
Of those that wear the Poet's crown : 
Hereafter, neither knave nor clown 

Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 

For now the Poet cannot die 
Nor leave his music as of old, 
But round him ere he scarce be cold 

Begins the scandal and the cry : 

" Proclaim the faults he would not show : 
Break lock and seal : betray the trust : 
Keep nothing sacred : 't is but just 

The many-headed beast should know." 

Ah shameless ! for he did but sing 

A song that pleased us from its worth ; 
No public life was his on earth, 

No blazon'd statesman he, nor king. 

He gave the people of his best : 

His worst he kept, his best he gave. 

My Shakspeare's curse on clown and knave 

Who will not let his ashes rest ! 

Who make it seem more sweet to be 
The little life of bank and brier, 
The bird that pipes his lone desire 

And dies unheard within his tree, 



LADY CLARE. 205 



Tlian he that, warbles long and loud 
And drops at Glory's temple-gates, 
For whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear his heart before the crowd ! 



TO E. L., ON fflS TRAVELS IN GREECE. 

Illyriax woodlands, echoing falls 
Of water, sheets of summer glass, 
The long divine Peneian pass, 

The vast Aki-okeraunian walls, 

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, 
With such a pencil, such a pen, 
You shadow forth to distant men, 

I read and felt that I was there : 

And trust me while I turn'd the page. 
And track'd you still on classic ground, 
I grew in gladness till I found 

My spirits in the golden age. 

For me the torrent ever pour'd 

And glisten'd — here and there alone 
The broad-limb'd Gods at random thrown 

By fountain-urns ; — and Naiads oar'd 

A glimmering shoulder under gloom 

Of cavern pillars ; on the swell 

Tlie silver lily heaved and fell ; 
And many a slope was rich in bloom 

From him that on the mountain-lea 
By dancing rivulets fed his flocks. 
To him who sat upon the rocks, 

And fluted to the mornino- sea. 



LADY CLARE. 

It was the time when lilies blow. 
And clouds are highest up in air. 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin. Lady Clare. 



206 LADY CLARE. 



I trow they did not part in scorn : 

Lovers long-betroth'd were they : 
They two will wed the morrow morn : 

God's blessing on the day ! 

" He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; 

He loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 

Said, " Who was this that went from thee ? " 
It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 

" To-morrow he weds with me.'' 

*' God be thank'd ! " said Alice the nurse, 
" That all comes round so just and fair : 

Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands. 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 

^' Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse ? 

Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild ? " 
"As God 's above," said AHce the nurse, 

" I speak the truth : you are my child. 

" The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child. 

And put my child in her stead." 

" Falsely, falsely have ye done, 

O mother," she said, " if this be true, 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret for your life. 

And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 
When you are man and wife." 

" If I 'm a beggar born," she said, 
" I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull off the broach of gold, 
And fling the diamond necklace by." 



LADY CLARE. 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret all ye can." 

She said " Not so : but I will know 
If there be any faith in man." 

" Nay now, what faith ? " said Alice the nurse, 
" The man will cleave unto his right." 

"And he shall have it," the lady replied, 
" Tho' I should die to-night." 

" Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! 

Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." 
" O mother, mother, mother," she said, 

" So strange it seems to me. 

" Yet here 's a kiss for my mother dear, 

My mother dear, if this be so. 
And lay your hand upon my head, 

And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet 0fW^, 

She was no longer Lady Clare : 
She went by dale, and she went by down, 

With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-Avhite doe Lord Ronald had brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand. 

And foUow'd her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower : 
" O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! 

Why come you drest like a village maid, 
That are the flower of the earth ? " 

" If I come drest like a village maid, 

I am but as my fortunes are : 
I am a beggar born," she said, 

"And not the Lady Clare." 

'• Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" For I am yours in word and in deed. 

Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" Your riddle is hard to read." 



207 



208 LADY CLARE. 

and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail : 
She look'd into Lord Konald's eyes, 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn : 

He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood 

" If you are not the heiress born, 

And I," said he, " the next in blood — 

" If you are not the heiress born, 
And I," said he, " the lawful heir. 

We two will wed to-morrow morn. 
And you shall still be Lady Clare." 




THE LORD OF BURL|EIGH. 



Ix her ea*lie Avlilspers gaily, 

'' If my lieart by signs can tell, 
Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, 

And I think thou lov'st i^well." 
She replies, in accents faint^^ ' 

" There is none I love like thee." 
He is but a landscape-painter, 

And a village maiden she. 
He to lips, that fondly fcilter. 

Presses his without reproof: 
Leads her to the village altar. 

And they leave her father's roof 
" I can make no marriage-present : 

Little can I give my wife. 
Love will make our cottage pleasant. 

And I love thee more than life." 
They by parks and lodges going- 
See the lordly castles stand : 
Sunnner ^voods, about them blowing, 

Made a murmur in the land. 
From deep thought himself he rouses, 

Says to her that loves him well, 
" Let us see these handsome houses 

AVhere the wealthy nobles dwell." 
So she goes by him attended, ' 

Hears him lovingly converse, 
Sees whatever fair and splendid 

Lay betwixt his home and hers ; 
Parks with oak and chestnut shadv, 
14 



210 THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 

Parks and order'd gardens great, 
Ancient homes of lord and lady, 

Built for pleasure and for state. 
All he shows her makes him dearer : 

Evermore she seems to gaze 
On that cottage growing nearer, 

Where they twain will spend their dayi^ 
O but she will love him truly ! 

He shall have a cheerful home ; 
She will order ail things duly, 

When beneath his roof they come. 
Thus her heart rejoices greatl}^, 

Till a gateway she discerns 
With armorial bearings stately. 

And beneath tlie gate she turns ; 
Sees a mansion more majestic 

Than all those she saw before : 
Many a gallant gay domestic 

Bows before him at the door. 
And they speak in gentle murmur, 

When Jjtey answer to his call, 
While he^reads with footstep firmer, 

Leading on from hall to hall. 
And, while now she wondei-s blindly, 

Nor the meaning can divine, 
Proudly turns he round and kindly, 

"All of this is mine and thine." 
Here he lives in state and bounty. 

Lord of Burleigh, fair and free. 
Not a lord in all the county 

Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the color flushes 

Her sweet face fi-om brow to chin : 
As it were with shame she blushes, 

And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countenance all over 

Pale again as death did prove : 
But he clasp'd her like a lover. 

And he cheer'd her soul with love. 
So she strove against her weakness, 

Tho' at times her spirit sank : 
Shaped her heart with woman's meekness 
^.^ To all duties of her rank : 

And a gentle consort made he, 

And her gentle mind was such 



SIR LAUXCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. 211 

That she grew a noble lady, 

And the people loved her much. 
But a trouble Aveigh'd upon her, 

And perplex'd her, night and morn. 
With the burden of an honor 

Unto which she was not born. 
Faint she grew, and ever fainter, 

And she murmur'd, " Oh, that he 
Were once more that landscape-painter. 

Which did win my heart from me ! " 
So she droop'd and droop'd before him, 

Fading sloAvly from his side : 
Three fair children first she bore him, 

Then before her time she died. 
Weeping, weeping late and early, 

Walking up and pacing down, 
Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. 
And he came to look upon her, 

And he look'd at her and said 
" Bring the dress and put it on her, 

That she wore when she was wed." 
Then her people, softly treading 

Bore to earth her body, drest 
In the dress that she was wed in, 

That her spirit might have rest. 



SIR LAIINCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Like souls that balance joy and pain, 
With tears and smiles from heaven again 
The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sun-lit fall of rain. 

In crystal vapor everywhere 
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between, 
And- far, in forest-deeps unseen. 
The topmost elm-tree gather'd green 

From draughts of balmy air. 

Sometimes the linnet piped his song : 
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong : 
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along, 



212 A FAREWELL. 

Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong : 
By grassy capes with fuller sound 

In curves the yellowing river ran, 

And drooping chestnut-buds began 

To spread into the perfect fan, 

Above the teeming ground. 

Then, in the boyhood of the year, 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer, 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 

She seem'd a part of joyous Spring : 
A gown of grass-green silk she wore. 
Buckled with golden clasps before ; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 

Closed in a golden ring. 

Now on some twisted ivy-net, 

Now by some tinkling rivulet, 

In mosses mixt with violet 

Her cream-white mule his pastern set : 

And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains 
Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warblings. 
When all the glimmering moorland rings 

With jingling bridle-reins. 

As she fled fast thro' sun and shade. 
The happy winds upon her play'd. 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid ; 
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd 

The rein with dainty finger-tips, 
A man had given all other bliss. 
And all his worldly worth for this, 
To waste his whole heart in one kiss 

Upon her perfect lips. 



A FAREWELL. 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea. 
Thy tribute wave deliver : 

No more by thee my steps shall be, 
Forever and forever. 



A FAREWELL. 2lo 



Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet then a river : 
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be, 

Forever and forever. 

But here will sigh thine alder-tree. 
And here thine aspen shiver ; 

And here by thee will hum the bee, 
Forever and forever. 

A thousand suns will stream on thet 
A thousand moons will quiver ; 

But not by thee my steps shall be, 
Forever and forever. 




THE BEGGAR MAID. 

Her arms across her breast she laid; 

She was more fair than words can say 
Bare-footed came the beggar maid 

Before the king Cophetua. 
In robe and crown the king stept down, 

To meet and greet lier on her way ; 
" It is no wonder," said the lords, 

" She is more beautiful than day." 



As shines the moon in clouded skies, 
She in her poor attire was seen : 



THE VISION" OP SIX. 215 

One praised her ankles, one her eyes, 
One her dark hair and lovesome mien. 

So sweet a face, such angel grace, 

In all that land had never been : "* 

Cophetua sware a royal oath : i 

/*' This beggar maid shall be my queen ! 7 



THE VISION OF SIN. 

1. 

I HAD a vision when the night was late : 

A youth came riding toward a palace-gate. 

He rode a horse with wings, that would have flown, 

But that his heavy rider kept him down. 

And fi-om the palace came a child of sin, 

And took him by the curls, and led him in. 

Where sat a company with heated eyes, 

Expecting when a fountain should arise : 

A sleepy light upon their brows and lips — 

As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse. 

Dreams over lake and la^vn, and isles and capes — 

Suflfused them, sitting, lying, languid shapes. 

By heaps of gourds, and skins of wdne, and piles of grapes. 

2. 
Then methought I heard a mellow sound, 
Gathering up from all the lower ground ; 
Narrowing in to where they sat assembled 
Low voluptuous music winding trembled, 
Wov'n in circles : they that heard it sigh'd. 
Panted hand in hand with faces pale, 
Swung themselves, and in low tones replied ; 
Till the fountain spouted, showering wide 
Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail ; 
Then the music touch'd the gates and died ; 
Rose again from where it seem'd to fail, 
Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing gale ; 
Till thronging in and in, to where they waited, 
As 't were a hundred-throated nightingale, 
The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd and palpitated ; 
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound. 
Caught the sparkles, and in circles, 
Purple ^uzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes, 
Flung the torrent rainbow round : 
Then they started from their places. 
Moved with violence, changed in hue, 



216 THE VISION OF SIN. 

Caught each other with wild grimaces, 
Half-invisible to the view, 
Wheeling with precipitate paces 
To the melody, till they flew. 
Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces, 
Twisted hard in fierce embraces, 
Like to Furies, like to Graces, 
Dash'd together in blinding dew : 
Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony, 
The nerve-dissolving melody 
Flutter'd headlong from the sky. 

3. 
And then I look'd up toward a mountain- tract. 
That girt the region with high cliff and lawn : 
I saw that every morning, far withdrawn 
Beyond the darkness and the cataract, 
God made himself an awful rose of dawn. 
Unheeded : and detaching, fold by fold. 
From those still heights, and, slowly drawing near, 
A vapor heavy, hueless, formless, ^d. 
Came floating on for many a month and year. 
Unheeded : and I thought I would have spoken, 
And warn'd that madman ere it grew too late : 
But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine was broken, 
When that cold vapor touch'd the palace-gate, 
And link'd again. I saw within my head 
A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean as death, 
Who slowly rode across a wither'd heath. 
And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said : 

4. 
" Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin ! 

Here is custom come your way ; 
Take my brute, and lead him in. 

Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. 

" Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! 

See that sheets are on my bed ; 
What ! the flower of life is past : 

It is long before you wed. 

" Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, 
At the Dragon on the heath ! 

Let us have a quiet hour. 

Let us hob-and-nob with Death. 



THE VISION OF SIN. 217 

" I am old, but let me drink ; 

Bring me spices, bring me wine ; 
I remember, when I think, 

That my youth was half divine. 

" Wine is good for shrivell'd lips, 

When a blanket wraps the day, 
When the rotten woodland drips, 

And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. 

" Sit thee down, and have no shame. 
Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee : 

What care I for any name ? 
What for order or degree ? 

" Let me screw thee up a peg : 

Let me loose thy tongue with wine : 

Callest thou that thing a leg ? 

Which is thinnest ? thine or mine ? 

" Thou shalt not be saved by works : 

Thou hast been a sinner too : 
Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks. 

Empty scarecrows, I and you ! 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can : 

Have a rouse before the morn : 
Every moment dies a man. 

Every moment one is born. 

" We are men of ruin'd blood ; 

Therefore comes it we are wise. 
Fish are we that love the mud, 

Rising to no fancy-flies. 

" Name and fame ! to fly sublime 
^ Thro' the courts, the camps, the schools, 
Is to be the ball of Time, 

Bandied by the hands of fools. 

" Friendship ! — to be two in one — 

Let the canting liar pack ! 
Well I know, when I am gone, 

How she mouths behind my back. 



218 THE VISION OP SIN. 

" Virtue ! — to be good and just — 
Every heart, when sifted well, 

Is a clot of warmer dust, 

Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. 

" O ! we two as well can look 
Whited thought and cleanly life 

As the priest, above his book 
Leering at his neighbor's wife. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can : 
Have a rouse before the morn : 

Every moment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 

" Drink, an«4»>let the parties ra^^e : 
They are fill'd with idle spleen ; 

Rising, falling, like a wave, 

For they know not what they mean. 

" He that roars for liberty 

Faster binds a tyrant's power ; 

And the tyrant's cruel glee 
Forces on the freer hour. 

" Fill the can, and fill the cup : 
All the windy ways of men 

Are but dust that rises up, 
And is lightly laid again. 

" Greet her with applausive breath, 
Freedom, gayly doth she tread ; 

In her right a civic wreath, 
In her left a human head. 

" No, I love not what is new ; 

She is of an ancient house : 
And I think we know the hue 

Of that cap upon her brows. 

" Let her go ! her thirst she slakes 
Where the bloody conduit runs ; 

Then her sweetest meal she makes 
On the first-born of her sons. 



THE VISION OF SIN. 219 

" Drink to lofty hopes that cool — 

Visions of a perfect State : 
Drink Ave, last, the public fool, 

Frantic love and frantic hate. 

" Chant me now some wicked stave, 

Till thy drooping courage rise. 
And the glow-worm of the graAC 

Glimmer In thy rheumy eyes. 

" Fear not thou to loose thy tongue ; 

Set thy hoary fancies free ; 
What Is loathsome to the young 

Savors -well to thee and me. 

" Change, reverting to the years, 
AYhen thy nerves could understand 

What there Is In loving tears. 

And the warmth of hand In hand. 

" Tell me tales of thy fii^t love — 

April hopes, the fools of chance ; 
Till the gra^'es begin to move, 

And the dead begin to dance. 

" Fill the can, and fill the cup : 

All the wdndy ways of men 
Are but dust that rises up, 

And Is lightly laid again. 

'' Trooping from their mouldy dens 

The chap-fallen circle spreads : 
Welcome, fellow-citizens, 

Hollow hearts and empty heads ! 

/ 

" You are bones, and what of that ? 

Every face, however full, 
Padded round with flesh and fat. 

Is but modoll'd on a skull. 



" Death is king, and Vivat Rex ! 

Tread a measure on the stones. 
Madam — If I know your sex. 

From the fashion of your bones. 



220 THE VISION OF SIN. 

" No, I cannot praise the fire 
In your eye — nor yet your lip : 

All the more do I admire 

Joints of cunning workmanship. 

" Lo ! God's likeness — the ground-plan — 
Neither modell'd, glazed, or framed : 

Buss me, thou rough sketch of man, 
Far too naked to be shamed ! 

" Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
While yv^G keep a little breath ! 

Drink to heavy Ignorance ! 

Hob-and-nob with brother Death ! 

" Thou art mazed, the night is long. 
And the longer night Is near : 

What ! I am not all as wrong 
As a bitter jest is dear. 

" Youthful hopes, by scores, to all. 
When the locks are crisp and curl'd ; 

Unto me my maudlin gall 

And my mockeries of the world. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can ! 
Mingle madness, mingle scorn ! 

Dregs of life, and lees of man : 
Yet we will not die forlorn." 
5. 
The voice grew faint : there came a further change : 
Once more uprose the mystic mountain-range : 
Below were men and horses pierced with worms, 
And slowly quickening into lower forms ; 
By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross, 
Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd with moss. 
Then some one spake : " Behold ! it was a crime 
Of sense avenged by sense that wore with time." 
Another said : " The crime of sense became 
The crime of malice, and is equal blame." 
And one : " He had not wholly quench'd his power ; 
A little grain of conscience made him sour." 
At last I heard a voice upon the slope 
Cry to the summit, " Is there any hope ? " 
To which an answer peal'd from that high land, 



THE EAGLE. 221 



But in a tongue no man could understand ; 
And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn 
God made Plimself an awful rose of dawn. 



/ Come not, when I am dead, ^, - ^^^^t. 

^ To drop thy foolish teai-s upon my grave, AvM (AV''^ ih-'^-''^ 
To trample round my fallen head. 

And vex the unhaj)py dust thou wouldst not save. J 
There let the w^ind sweep and the plover cry ; 
But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime 

I care no longer, being all unblest : 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, 

And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie : ; 
Go by, go by." ^ 



THE EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

He clasps the crag with hooked hands ; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Eing'd with the azure Avorld, he stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ; 
He watches fi-om his mountain-walls. 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 



Move eastward, happy earth, and leave 
Yon orange sunset waning slow : 

From fringes of the faded eve, 
O, happy planet, eastward go ; 

Till over thy dark shoulder glow 
Thy silver sister- world, and rise 
To glass herself in dewy eyes 

That watch me from the glen below. 



222 THE poet's song. 

Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borne, 
Dip forward under starry light, 

And move me to my marriage-morn. 
And round again to happy night. 



Break, break, break. 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor-lad. 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill ; 

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



THE POET'S SONG. 

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, 

He pass'd by the town and out of the street, 
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun. 

And waves of shadow went over the wheat, 
And he sat him down in a lonely place. 

And chanted a melody loud and sweet, 
That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, 

And the lark drop down at his feet. 

The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, 

The snake slipt under a spray, 
The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, 

And stared, with his foot on the prey, 
And the nightingale thought, " I have sung many songs, 

But never a one so gay, 
For he sings of what the world will be 

When the years have died away." 



PROLOGUE. 223 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 

PROLOGUE. 

Sir Walter Yivian all a summer's day 
Gave his broad lawns until the set of sun 
Up to the people : thither floek'd at noon 
His tenants, wife and child, and thither half 
The neighboring borough with their Institute 
Of which he was the patron. I was there 
From college, visiting the son, — the son 
A Walter too, — with othei-s of our set, 
Fi^e others : we were seven at Vivian-place. 

And me that morning Walter show'd the house, 
Greek, set with busts : from vases in the hall 
Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier than their names, 
Grew side by side ; and on the pavement lay 
Carved stones of the Abbey-ruin in the park, 
Huge Ammonites, and the first bones of Time ; 
And on the tables every clime and age 
Jumbled together ; celts and calumets, 
Cla^-more and snowshoe, toys in lava, fans 
Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries, 
Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere. 
The cm-sed Malayan crease, and battle-clubs 
From the isles of palm : and higher on the walls, 
Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and deer, 
His own forefatliei's' arms and armor hung. 

And " this," he said, " Avas Hugh's at Agincourt ; 
And that was old Sir Ralph's at Ascalon : 
A good knight he ! we keep a chronicle 
With all about him " — which he brought, and I 
Dived p[\ a hoard of tales that dealt with knights 
Half-legend, half-historic, counts and kings 
Who laid about them at their wills and died ; 
And mixt with these, a lady, one that arm'd 
Her own fair head, and sallying thro' the gate. 
Had beat her foes with slaughter from her walls. 

" O miracle of women," said the book, 
" O noble heart who, being strait-besieged 
By this wild king to force her to his wish, 
Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunn'd a soldier's death. 
But now when all was lost or seem'd as lost — 



224 PROLOGUE. 

Her stature more than mortal in the burst 
Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on fire — 
Brake with a blast of trumpets from the gate, 
And, falling on them like a thunderbolt. 
She trampled some beneath her horses' heels. 
And some were whelm'd with missiles of the wall, 
And some were push'd Avith lances from the rock. 
And part were drown'd within the whirling brook : 
O miracle of noble womanhood ! " 

So sang the gallant glorious chronicle ; 
And, I all rapt in this, " Come out," he said, 
" To the Abbey : there is Aunt Elizabeth 
And sister Lilia with the rest." We went 
(I kept the book and had my finger in it) 
Down thro' the park : strange was the sight to me ; 
For all the sloping pasture murmur'd, sown 
With happy faces and with holiday. 
There moved the multitude, a thousand heads : 
The patient leaders of their Institute 
Taught them with facts. One rear'd a font of stone 
And drew, from butts of water on the slope, 
The fountain of the moment, playing now 
A twisted snake, and now a rain of pearls, 
Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded ball 
Danced like a wisp : and somewhat lower down 
A man with knobs and wires and phials fired 
A cannon : Echo answer'd in her sleep 
From hollow fields : and here were telescopes 
For azure views ; and there a group of girls 
In circle waited, whom the electric shock 
Dislink'd with shrieks and laughter : round the lake 
A little clock-work steamer paddling plied 
And shook the lilies : perch'd about the knolls 
A dozen angry models jetted steam : 
A petty railway ran : a fire-balloon 
Rose gem-like up before the dusky groves 
And dropt a fairy parachute and past : 
And there thro' twenty posts of telegraph 
They flash'd a saucy message to and fro 
Between the mimic stations ; so that sport 
Went hand in hand with Science ; otherwhere 
Pure sport : a herd of boys with clamor bowl'd 
And stump'd the wicket ; babies roll'd about 
Like tumbled fruit in grass ; and men and maids 
Arranged a country-dance, and flew thro' light 



PROLOGUE. 225 

And shadow, while the twangling violin 

Struck up witb Soldier-laddie, and overhead 

The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty lime 

Made noise with bees and breeze from end to end. 

Strange was the sight and smacking of the time ; 
And long we gazed, but satiated at length 
Came to the ruins. High-arch'd and ivj-claspt, 
Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire, 
Thro' one wide chasm of time and frost they gave 
The park, the crowd, the house ; but all within 
The sward was trim as any garden-lawn : 
And here we lit on Aunt Ehzabeth, 
And Lilia with the rest, and lady friends 
From neighbor seats : and there was Ralph himself, 
A broken statue propt against the wall, 
As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport, 
Half child half woman as she was, had wound 
A scarf of orange round the stony helm. 
And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk, 
That made the old warrior from his ivied nook 
Glow like a sunbeam : near his tomb a feast 
Shone, silver-set ; about it lay the guests. 
And there we join'd them : then the maiden Aunt 
Took this fair day for text, and from it preach'd 
An universal culture for the crowd. 
And all things great ; but we, unworthier, told 
Of college : he had climb'd across the spikes, 
And he had squeezed himself betwixt the bars, 
And he had breath'd the Proctor's dogs ; and one 
Discuss'd his tutor, rough to common men, 
Butnioneying at the whisper of a lord ; 
And one the Master, as a rogue in grain 
Veneer'd with sanctimonious theory. 

But while they talk'd, above their heads I saw 
The feudal Avarrior lady-clad ; which brought 
My book to mind : and opening this I read 
Of ohl Sir Ralph a page or two that rang 
With tilt and tourney ; then the tale of her 
That drove her foes with slaughter from her walls, 
And much I praised her nobleness, and " Where," 
Ask'd Walter, patting Lllia's head (she lay 
Beside him) " lives there such a woman now ? " 
15 



226 PROLOGUE. 

Quick answer'd Lilia, " There are thousands now 
Such women, but convention beats them down : 
It is but bringing up ; no more than that : 
You men have done it : how I hate you all ! 
Ah, were I something great ! I wish I were 
Some mighty poetess, I would shame you then, 
That love to keep us children ! O I wish 
That I were some great Princess, I would build 
Far off from men a college like a man's, 
And I would teach them all that men are taught ; 
We are twice as quick ! " And here she shook aside 
The hand that play'd the patron with her curls. 

And one said smiling, " Pretty were the sight 
If our old halls could change their sex, and flaunt 
With prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans, 
And sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair. 
I think they should not wear our rusty gowns. 
But move as rich as Emperor-moths, or Ralph 
Who shines so in the corner ; yet I fear. 
If there were many Lllias in the brood. 
However deep you might embower the nest, 
Some boy would spy it." 

At this upon the sward 
She tapt her tiny silken-sandal'd foot : 
'' That 's your light way ; but I would make it death 
For any male thing but to peep at us." 

Petulent she spoke, and at herself she laugh'd ; 
A rosebud set with little wilful thorns, 
And sweet as English air could make her, she : 
But Walter hall'd a score of names upon her. 
And " petty Ogress," and " ungrateful Puss," 
And swore he long'd at college, only long'd. 
All else was well, for she-society. 
They boated and they cricketed ; they talk'd 
At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics ; 
They lost their weeks ; they vext the souls of deans ; 
They rode ; they betted ; made a hundred friends. 
And caught the blossom of the flying terms, 
But miss'd the mignonette of Vivian-place. 
The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus he spoke, 
Part banter, part affection. 

" True," she said, 
"■ We doubt not that. O yes, you miss'd us much. 
I '11 stake my ruby ring upon it you did." 



PROLOGUE. 227 

She held it out ; and as a pairot tui-ns 
Up thro' gilt wires a crafty loving eye, 
And takes a lady's finger with all care, 
And bites it for true heart and not for harm, 
So he with Lilia's. Daintily she shriek'd 
And '^^Tung it. " Doubt my word again ! " he said. 
'' Come, listen ! here is proof that you were miss'd : 
We seven stay'd at Christmas up to read ; 
And there we took one tutor as to read : 
The hard-grain'd Muses of the cube and square 
Were out of season : never man, I think, 
So moulder'd in a sinecure as he : 
For while our cloisters echo'd frosty feet. 
And our long wallcs were stript as bare as brooms. 
We did but tallc you over, pledge you all 
In wassail ; often, like as many girls — 
Sick for the hollies and the yews of homo — 
As many Httle trifling Lilias — play'd 
Charades and riddles as at Christmas here. 
And what 's my thought and when and iohe7'e and hoiu, 
And often told a tale from mouth to mouth 
As here at Christmas." 

She remember'd that : 
A pleasant game, she thought : she liked it more 
Than magic music, forfeits, all the rest. 
But these — what kind of tales did men tell men. 
She wonder'd, by themselves ? 

A half-disdain 
Perch'd on the pouted blossom of her lips : 
And Walter nodded at me ; " He began, 
The rest would follow, each in turn ; and so 
We forged a sevenfold story. Kind ? what kind ? 
Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas solecisms, 
Seven-headed monsters only made to kill 
Time by the fire in winter." 

" Eall him now, 
The t}Tant ! kill him in the summer too," 
Said Lilia ; " Why not now '? " the maiden Aunt 
" Why not a summer's as a Avlnter's tale ? 
A tale for summer as befits the time, 
And something it should be to suit the place, 
Heroic, for a hero lies beneath, 
Grave, solemn ! " 

Walter warp'd his mouth at this 
To something so mock-solemn, that I laugh'd 



228 THE PKINCESS : 

And Lilia woke with sudden-shrilling mirth 

An echo like a ghostly woodpecker, 

Hid in the ruins ; till the maiden Aunt 

(A little sense of wrong had touch'd her face 

With color) turn'd to meet me with "As you will ; 

Heroic if you will, or what you will. 

Or be yourself your hero if you will." 

" Take Lilia, then, for heroine," clamor'd he, 
"And make her some great Princess, six feet high. 
Grand, epic, homicidal ; and be you 
The Prince to win her ! " 

" Then follow me, the Prince, 
I answer'd, " each be hero in his turn ! 
Seven and yet one, like shadows in a dream. — 
Heroic seems our Princess as required — 
But something made to suit with Time and place, 
A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house, 
A talk of college and of ladies' rights, 
A feudal knight in silken masquerade. 
And, yonder, shrieks and strange experiments 
For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt them all — 
This were a medley ! we should have him back 
Who told the ' Winter's tale ' to do it for us. 
No matter : we will say whatever comes. 
And let the ladies sing us, if they will. 
From time to time, some ballad or a song 
To give us breathing-space." 

So I began. 
And the rest folio w'd : and the women sang 
Between the rougher voices of the men. 
Like linnets in the pauses of the wind : 
And here I give the story and the songs. 



I. 

A Prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face, 
Of temper amorous, as the first of May, 
With lengths of yellow ringlets, like a girl, 
For on my cradle shone the Northern star. 

There lived an ancient legend in our house. 
Some sorcerer, whom a far-off grandsire burnt 
Because he cast no shadow, had foretold, 
Dying, that none of all our blood should know 



A MEDLEY. 229 

The shadow from the substance, and that one 

Should come to fight with shadows and to fall. 

For so, my mother said, the story ran. 

And, truly, waking dreams were, more or less, 

An old and strange affection of the house. 

Myself too had weird seizures, Heavens knows what : 

On a sudden in the midst of men and day, 

And while I walk'd and talk'd as heretofore, 

I seem'd to more among a world of ghosts, 

And feel myself the shadow of a dream. 

Our great court-Galen poised his gilt-head cane, 

And paw'd his beard, and mutter'd " catalepsy." 

My mother pitying made a thousand prayers ; 

My mother was as mild as any saint. 

Half-canonized by all that look'd on her, 

So gracious was her tact and tenderness : 

But my good father thought a king a king ; 

He cared not for the affection of the house ; 

He held his sceptre like a pedant's wand 

To lash offence, and with long arms and hands 

B-each'd out, and pick'd offenders from the mass 

For judgment. 

Now it chanced that I had been. 
While life was yet in bud and blade, betroth'd 
To one, a neighboring Princess : she to me 
Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf 
At eight years old ; and still from time to time 
Came murmurs of her beauty from the South, 
And of her brethren, youths of puissance ; 
And still I wore her picture by my heart. 
And one dark tress ; and all around them both 
Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees about their queen. 

But when the days drew nigh that I should wed. 
My father sent ambassadors with furs 
And jewels, gifts, to fetch her : these brought back 
A present, a great labor of the loom ; 
And therawithal an aswer vague as wind : \ 

Besides, they saw the king ; he took the gifts ; 
He said there was a compact ; that was true : 
But then she had a will ; was he to blame ? 
And maiden fancies ; loved to live alone 
Among her women; certain, would not wed. 

That morning in the presence-room I stood 



230 THE PRINCESS : 

With Cyril and with Florian, my two friends : 

The first, a gentleman of broken means 

(His father's fault) but given to starts and biu^ts 

Of revel ; and the last, my other heart, 

And almost my half-self, for still we moved 

Together, twinn'd as horse's ear and eye. 

Now, while they spake, I saw my father's face 
Grow long and troubled like a rising moon, 
Inflamed with wrath : he started on his feet, 
Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, and rent 
The wonder of the loom thro' warp and woof 
From skirt to skirt ; and at the last he sware 
That he would send a hundred thousand men, 
And bring her in a whirlwind : then he chew'd 
The thrice-turn'd cud of wrath, and cook'd his spleen, 
Communing with his captains of the war. 

At last I spoke. " My father, let me go. 
It cannot be but some gross error lies 
In this report, this answer of a king, 
Whom all men rate as kind and hospitable : 
Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once seen, 
Whate'er my grief to find her less than fame, 
May rue the bargain made." And Florian said : 
" I have a sister at the foreign court, 
Who moves about the Princess ; she, you know, 
Who wedded with a nobleman from thence : 
He, dying lately, left her, as I hear. 
The lady of three castles in that land : 
Thro' her this matter might be sifted clean." 
And C\Til whisper'd : " Take me with you too." 
Then laughing, " What, if these weird seizures come 
Upon you in those lands, and no one near 
To point you out the shadow from the truth ! 
Take me : I '11 serve you better in a strait ; 
I grate on rusty hinges here : " but " No ! " 
Roar'd the rough king, " you shall not ; we ourself 
Will crush her pretty maiden fancies dead 
In iron gauntlets : break the council up." 

But when the council broke, I rose and past 
Thro' the wild woods that hung about the town ; 
Found a still place, and pluck'd her likeness out ; 
Laid it on flowers, and watch'd it lying bathed 



A MEDLEY. 231 

In the green gleam of dewy-tassell'd trees : 

\Yhat were those ftmcies ? wherefore break her troth ? . 

Proud look'd the lips : but while I meditated 

A wind arose and rush'd upon the South, 

And shook the songs, the Avhispers, and the shrieks 

Of the wild woods together ; and a Voice 

Went with it, " Follow, follow, thou shalt win." 

Then, ere the silver sickle of that month 
Became her golden shield, I stole from court 
AVith Cyril and with Florian, unperceived. 
Cat-footed thro' the town, and half in dread 
To hear my father's clamor at our backs, 
With Ho ! fi'om some bay-window shake the night ; 
But all was quiet: from the bastion'd walls 
Like threaded spiders, one by one, we dropt, 
And flying reach'd the frontier : then we crost 
To a livelier land ; and so by tilth and grange, 
And vines, and blowing bosks of wilderness, 
We gain'd the mother-city thick with towers, 
And in the imperial palace found the king. 

His name was Gama ; crack'd and small his voice, 
But bland the smile that like a wrinkling wind 
On glassy water drove his cheek in lines ; 
A little dry old man, without a star, 
Not like a king : three days he feasted us. 
And on the fourth I spake of why we came. 
And my betroth'd. " You do us, Prince," he said, 
Airing a snowy hand and signet-gem, 
"All honor. We remember love ourselves 
In our sweet youth : there did a compact pass 
Long summers back, a kind of ceremony — 
I think the year in which our olives fail'd. 
I would you had her. Prince, with all my heart, 
With my full heart : but there were widows here, 
Two widows. Lady Psyche, Lady Blanche ; 
They fed her theories, in and out of place 
Maintaining that with equal husbandry 
The woman Avere an equal to the man. 
They harp'd on this ; with this our banquets rang ; 
Our dances broke and buzz'd in knots of talk ; 
Nothing but this ; my very ears were hot 
To hear them : knowledge, so my daughter held. 
Was all in all : they had but been, she thought, 



232 THE PRINCESS : 

As children ; they must lose the child, assume 
The woman : then, Sir, awful odes she wrote, 
Too awflil, sure, for what they treated of, 
But all she is and does is awful ; odes 
About this losing of the child ; and rhymes 
And dismal lyrics, prophesying change 
Beyond all reason : these the women sang ; 
And they that know such things — I sought but peace ; 
No critic I — would call them masterpieces : 
They master'd me. At last she begg'd a boon, — • 
A certain summer-palace which I have 
Hard by your father's frontier : I said no. 
Yet being an easy man, gave it : and there, 
AU wild to found an University 
. For maidens, on the spur she fled ; and more 
We know not, — only this : they see no men, 
Not ev'n her brother Arac, nor the twins 
Her brethren, tho' they love her, look upon her 
As on a kind of paragon ; and I 
(Pardon me saying it) were much loath to breed 
Dispute betwixt myself and mine : but since 
(And I confess with right) you think me bound 
In some sort, I can give you letters to her ; 
And yet, to s]3eak tlie truth, I rate your chance 
Almost at naked nothing." 

Thus the king ; 
And I, tho' nettled that he seem'd to slur 
With garrulous ease and oily courtesies 
Our formal compact, yet, not less (all frets 
But chafing me on fire to find my bride) 
Went forth again with both my friends. We rode 
Many a long league back to the North. At last 
From hills, that look'd across a land of hope, 
We dropt with evening on a rustic town 
Set in a gleaming river's crescent-curve. 
Close at the boundary of the liberties ; 
There, enter'd an old hostel, call'd mine host 
To council, plied him with his richest wines, 
And show'd the late-writ letters of the king. 

He with a long low sibilation, stared 
As blank as death in marble ; then exclaim'd, 
Averring it was clear against all rules 
For any man to go : but as his brain 
Began to mellow, " If the king," he said, 



A MEDLEY. 233 

« 

" Had given us lettei-s, was he bound to speak ? 
The king woulil bear him out " ; and at the last — 
The summer of the vine in all his veins — 
" No doubt that we might make it worth his while. 
She once had past that way ; he heard her speak ; 
She scared him ; life ! he never saAv the like ; 
She look'd as grand as doomsday and as grave : 
And he, he reverenced his liege-lady there ; 
He always made a point to post with mares ; 
His daughter and his housemaid were the boys : 
The land, he understood, for miles about 
Was till'd by women ; all the swine were sows, 
And all the dog-s "— 

But while he jested thus, 
A thought flash'd thro' me which I clothed in act, 
Remembering how we three presented Maid, 
Or Nymph, or Goddess, at high tide of feast, 
In masque or pageant at my father's court. 
We sent mine host to purchase female gear ; 
He brought it, and himself, a sight to shake 
The midriff of despair with laughter, holp 
To lace us up, till, each, in maiden plumes 
We rustled : him we gave a costly bribe 
To guerdon silence, mounted our good steeds, 
And boldly ventm-ed on the liberties. 

We follow'd up the river as we rode, 
And rode till midnight, when the college-lights 
Began to glitter firefly-like in copse 
And linden alley : then we past an arch. 
Whereon a woman-statue rose with wings 
From four wing'd horses dark against the stars ; 
And some inscription ran along the front, 
But deep in shadow : further on we gain'd 
A little street, half garden and half house ; 
But scarce could hear each other speak for noise 
Of clocks and chimes, like silver hammers falling 
On silver anvils, and the splash and stir 
Of fountains spouted up and showering down 
In meshes of the jasmine and the rose : 
And all about us peal'd the nightingale, 
Rapt in her song, and careless of the snare. 

There stood a bust of Pallas for a sign. 
By two sphere lamps blazon'd like Heaven and Earth 



234 THE PRINCESS : 

With constellation and with continent, 

Above an entry : riding in, we call'd ; 

A plurap-arm'd Ostleress and a stable-wench 

Came running at the call; and help'd us down. 

Then stept a buxom hostess forth, and sail'd, 

Full-blown, before us into rooms which gave 

Upon a pillar'd porch, the bases lost 

In laurel : her we ask'd of that and this, 

And who were tutors. " Lady Blanche," she said, 

"And Lady Psyche." " Which was prettiest, 

Best-natured ? " " Lady Psyche." " Hers are we,' 

One voice, we cried ; and I sat down and wrote, 

In such a hand as when a field of corn 

Bows all its ears before the roaring East ; 

" Three ladies of the Northern empire pray 
Your Highness would enroll them with your own, 
As Lady Pysche's pupils." 

This I seal'd : 
The seal was Cupid bent above a scroll. 
And o'er his head Uranian Yenus hung. 
And raised the blinding bandage from his eyes : 
I gave the letter to be sent with dawn ; 
And then to bed, where half in doze I seem'd 
To float about a glimmering night, and watch 
A full sea glazed with mufiied moonlight, swell 
On some dark shore just seen that it was rich. 



As thro' the land at eve we went. 

And pkxck'd the ripen'd ears. 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
we fell out I know not why, 

And kiss'd again with tears. 
And blessings on the falling out 

That all the more endears, 
When we fall out with those we love 

And kiss again with tears ! 
For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years, 
There above the little grave, 
there above the little grave. 

We kiss'd again with tears. 



A MEDLEY. 235 



II. 

At break of day the College Portress came : 

She brought us Academic silks, in hue 

The lilac, with a silken hood to each, 

And zoned with gold ; and now when these were on, 

And we as rich as moths from dusk cocoons, 

She, curtseying her obeisance, let us know 

The Princess Ida waited : out we paced, 

I first, and following thro' the porch that sang 

All round with laurel, issued in a court 

Compact Avith lucid marbles, boss'd wdth lengths 

Of classic frieze, with ample awnings gay 

Betwixt the pillars, and with great urns of flowers. 

The Muses and the Graces, gi^oup'd in threes, 

Enring'd a billowing fountain in the midst ; 

And here and there on lattice edges lay 

Or book or lute ; but hastily we past. 

And up a flight cf stairs into the hall. 

There at a board by tome and paper sat. 
With two tame leopards couch'd beside her throne, 
All beauty compass'd in a female form. 
The Princess ; liker to the inhabitant 
Of some clear planet close upon the Sun, 
Than our man's earth ; such eyes were in her head. 
And so much grace and power, breathing down 
From over her arch'd brows, with every turn 
Lived thro' her to the tips of her long hands. 
And to her feet. She rose her height, and said : 

" We give you welcome : not without redound 
Of use and glory to yourself ye come. 
The fii-st-fruits of the stranger : aftertime. 
And that full voice which circles round the grave, 
Will rank you nobly, mingled up with me. 
What ! ara the ladies of your land so tall ? " 
" We of the court," said Cyril. " From the court," 
She answer'd, " then ye know the Prince? " and he : 
" The climax of his age ! as tho' there were 
One rose in all the Avorld, your Highn(iss that, 
He worships your ideal " : she replied : 
" We scarcely thouglit in our own hall to hear 
This barren verbiage, current among men. 
Light coin, the tinsel clink of compliment. 
Your flight from out your bookless wilds would seem 



236 THE princess: 

As arguing love of knowledge and of power ; 
Your language proves you still the child. Indeed, 
We dream not of him: when we set our hand 
To this great work, we purposed with ourself 
Never to wed. You likewise will do well, 
Ladies, in entering here, to cast and fling 
The tricks, which make us toys of men, that so, 
Some future time, if so indeed you will. 
You may with those self-styled our lords ally 
Your fortunes, justlier balanced, scale with scale." 
At those high words, we conscious of ourselves, 
Perused the matting ; then an officer 
Rose up, and read the statutes, such as these : 
Not for three years to correspond with home ; 
Not for three years to cross the liberties ; 
Not for three years to speak with any men ; 
And many more, which hastily subscribed, 
We enter'd on the boards : and " Now," she cried, 
" Ye are green wood, see ye warp not. Loolc, our hall ! 
Our statues ! — not of those that men desire. 
Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode, 
Nor stunted squaws of West or East ; but she 
That taught the Sabine how to rule, and she 
The foundress of the Babylonian wall, 
The Carian xirtemisia strong in war, 
The Rhodope, that built the pyramid, 
Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palrayrene 
That fought Aurelian, and the Roman brows 
Of Agrippina. Dwell with these, and lose 
Convention, since to look on noble forms 
Makes noble thro' the sensuous organism 
That which is higher. O lift your natures up : 
Embrace our aims : work out your freedom. Girls, 
Knowledge is now no more a fountain seal'd : 
Drink deep, until the habits of the slave, 
Tlie sins of emptiness, gossip and spite 
And slander, die. Better not be at aU 
Than not be noble. Leave us : you may go : 
To-day the Lady Psyche will harangue . 
The fresh arrivals of the week before ; 
For they press in from all the provinces, 
And fill the hive." 

She spoke, and bomng waved 
Dismissal : back again we crost the court 
To Lady Psyche's : as we enter'd in, 
There sat along; the forms, like morninoj doves 



A MEDLEY. 237 

That sun tlieir milky bosoms on the thatch, 
A patient range of pupils ; she herself 
Erect behind a desk of satin-wood, 
A quick brunette, well-moulded, falcon-eyed. 
And on the hither side, or so ^she look'd, 
Of twenty summers. At her left, a child, 
In shining draperies, headed like a star, 
Her maiden babe, a double April old, 
Aglaia slept. AVe sat : the Lady glanced : 
Then Florian, but no livelier than the dame 
That whisper'd "Asses' ears " among the sedge, 
" My sister." •' Comely too by all that 's fair," 
Said Cyril. " O hush, hush ! " and she began. 

" This world was once a fluid haze of light. 
Till toward the centre set the starry tides. 
And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast 
The planets : then the monster, then the man ; 
Tattoo'd or woaded, winter-clad in skins. 
Raw from the prime, and crushing down his mate ; 
As yet we find in barbarous isles, and here 
Among the lowest." 

Thereupon she took 
A bird's-eye view of all the ungracious past ; 
Glanced at the legendary Amazon 
As emblematic of a nobler age ; 
Appraised the Lycian custom, spoke of those 
That lay at wine with Lar and Lucumo ; 
Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Roman lines 
Of empire, and the woman's state in each, 
How far from just ; till warming with her theme 
She fulmined out her scorn of laws Salique 
And little-footed China, touch'd on Mahomet 
With much contempt, and came to chivalry : 
When some respect, however slight, was paid 
To woman, superstition all awry : 
However then commenced the dawn : a beam 
Had slanted forward, falling in a land 
Of promise ; fruit would follow. Deep, indeed. 
Their debt of thanks to her who first had dared 
To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, 
Disyoke their necks from custom, and assert 
None lordlier than themselves but that which made 
Woman and man. She had founded ; they must build. 
Here might they learn whatever men were taught : 
Let them not fear : some said their heads were less : 



238 THE PKINCESS : 

Some men's were small ; not they the least of men ; 

For often fineness compensated size : 

Besides, the brain was like the hand, and grew 

With using ; thence the man's, if more was more ; 

He took advantage of his strength to be 

First in the field : some ages had been lost ; 

But woman ripen'd earlier, and her life 

Was longer ; and albeit their glorious names 

Were fewer, scatter'd stars, yet .ince in truth 

The highest is the measure of the man, 

And not the Kaffir, Hottentot, Malay, 

Nor those horn-handed breakers of the glebe, 

But Homer, Plato, Verulam ; even so 

With woman : and in arts of government 

Elizabeth and others ; arts of war 

The peasant Joan and others ; arts of grace 

Sappho and others vied with any man : 

And, last not least, she who had left her place. 

And bow'd her state to them, that they might grow 

To use and power on this Oasis, lapt 

In the arms of leisure, sacred from the blight 

Of ancient influence and scorn. 

At last 
She rose upon a wind of prophecy, 
Dilating on the future ; " everywhere 
Two heads in council, two beside the hearth. 
Two in the tangled business of the world, 
Two in the liberal offices of life. 
Two plummets dropt for one to sound the abyss 
Of science, and the secrets of the mind : 
Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, more : 
And everywhere the broad and bounteous Earth 
Should bear a double growth of those rare souls, 
Poets, whose thoughts enrich the blood of the world." 

She ended here, and beckon'd us : the rest 
Parted ; and, glowing full-faced welcome, she 
Began to address us, and was moving on 
In gratulation, till as when a boat 
Tacks, and the slacken'd sail flaps, all her voice 
Faltering and fluttering in her throat, she cried, 
" My brother ! " " Well, my sister." " Oh," she said, 
" What do you here ? and in this dress ? and these ? 
Why who are these ? a wolf within the fold ! 
A pack of wolves ! the Lord be gracious to me ! 



A MEDLEY. 239 

A plot, a plot, a plot, to ruin all ! " 
" No plot, no plot," he ansAver* d. " Wretched boy, 
How saw you not the inscription on the gate, 
Let no max exter in on pain of death ? " 
"And if I had," he answer'd, " who could think 
The softer Adams of yoiu- Academe, 

sister. Sirens tho' they be, were such 

As chanted on the blanching bones of men ? " 

" But you will find it otherwise," she said. 

" You jest : ill jesting with edge-tools ! my vow 

Binds me to speak, and O that iron will, 

That axelike edge unturnable, our Head, 

The Princess." " Well then, Psyche, take my life, 

And nail me like a weasel on a grano-e 

For warning : bury me beside the gate, 

And cut this epitaph above my bones ; 

Here lies a hrother hy a sister slain, 

All for the common good of loomankind." 

" Let me die too," said Cyril, " having seen 

And heard the Lady Psyche." 

I struck in : 
"Albeit so mask'd, Madam, I love the truth ; 
Receive it ; and in me behold the Prince 
Your countryman, affianced years ago 
To the Lady Ida : here, for here she was, 
And thus '(Avhat other way was left ?) I canie."^ 
" O Sir, O Prince, I have no country ; none ; 
If any, this ; but none. Whate'er I was. 
Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. 
Affianced, Sir ? love-whispers may not breathe 
W^ithin this vestal limit ; and how should I, 
Who am not mine, say, live : the thunderbolt 
Hangs silent ; but prepare : I speak ; it falls." 
" Yet pause," I said : " for that inscription there, 

1 think no more of deadly lurks therein. 
Than in a clapper clapping in a garth. 

To scare the fowl from fruit : if more there be. 
If more and acted on, what follows ? war ; 
Your own work marr'd : for this your Academe. 
Whichever side be victor, in the halloo 
Will topple to the trumpet down, and pass 
With all fair theories only made to gild 
A stormless summer." " Let the Princess judge 
Of that," she said : " farewell Sir — and to you. 
I shudder at the sequel, but I go." 



240 THE PRINCESS : 

"Are you that Lady Psyche," I rejoin'd, 
" The fifth in line from that old Florian, 
Yet hangs his portrait in ni}^ father's hall 
(The gaunt old Baron with his beetle brow 
Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights) 
As he bestrode my Grandsire, when he fell, 
And all else fled ? We point to it, and we say, 
The loyal warmth of Florian is not cold, 
But branches current yet in kindred veins." 
"Are you that Psyche," Florian added, " she 
With whom I sang about the morning hills. 
Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the purple fly, 
And snared the squirrel of the glen ? are you 
That Psyche, wont to bind my throbbing brow. 
To smooth my pillow, mix the foaming draught 
Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and read 
My sickness down to happy dreams ? are you 
That brother-sister Psyche, both in one ? 
You were that Psyche, but what are you now ? " 
" You are that Psyche," Cyril said, " for whom 
I would be that forever which I seem, — 
Woman, — if I might sit beside your feet. 
And glean your scatter'd sapience." 



"Are you that Lady Psyche," I began, 

" That on her bridal morn, before she past 

From all her old companions, when the king 

Kiss'd her pale cheek, declared that ancient ties 

Would still be dear beyond the southern hills ; 

That were there any of our people there 

Li want or peril, there was one to hear 

And help them : look ! for such are these and I." 

"Are you that Psyche," Florian ask'd, " to whom, 

In gentler days, your arrow-wounded fawn 

Came flying while you sat beside the well ? 

The creature laid his muzzle on your lap. 

And sobb'd, and you sobb'd with it, and the blood 

Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and you wept. 

That was fiiwn's blood, not brother's, yet you wept. 

O by the bright head of my little niece, 

You were that Pe yche, and what are you now ? " 

" You are that Psyche," Cyril said again, 

" The mother of the sweetest little maid. 

That ever crow'd for kisses." 



A .-MKni.KV 



241 



" Out upon it I " 
She answcr'd, "Peace! and why should I not phiy 
The Spartan Mother with emotion, be 
The Lueins Junius Brutus of my kind ? 




Him you call o:reat : he for the connnon weal, 

The fading politics of niort'd Home, 

As I might slay this child, if good need were. 

Slew both his sons: and I, shall T, on whom 

The secular (Mnancipation turns 

Of half this world, be swerved from right to save 

A prince, a brother V a little will I yield. 

Hest so, ])e»-chance, for us, and well for you. 

O hard, when hne and (hity clash 1 J fear 



/ 



242 , THE princess: 

My conscience will not count me fleckless ; yet — 

Hear my conditions : promise (otherwise 

You perish) as you came, to slip away, 

To-day, to-morrow, soon : it shall be said, 

These women were too barbarous, would not learn ; 

They fled, who might have shamed us : promise, all.' 

What could we else, we promised each ; and she, 
Like some wild creature newly-caged, commenced 
A to and fro, so pacing till she paused 
By Florian ; holding out her lily arms 
Took both his hands, and smiling, faintly said : 
" I knew you at the first : tho' you have grown 
You scarce have alter'd : I am sad and glad 
To see you, Florian. / give thee to death. 
My brother ! it was duty spoke, not I. 
My needful seeming harshness, pardon it. 
Our mother, is she well ? " 

With that she kiss'd 
His forehead, then, a moment after, clung 
About him, and betwixt them blossom'd up 
From out a common vein of memory 
Sweet household talk, and phrases of the hearth. 
And far allusion, till the gracious dews 
Began to glisten and to fall : and while 
They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came a voice, 
"I brought a message here from Lady Blanche." 
Back started she, and turning round we saw 
The Lady Blanche's daughter where she stood, — 
Melissa, with her hand upon the lock, — 
A rosy blonde, and in a college-gown, 
That clad her like an April daffodilly 
(Her mother's color) with her lips apart. 
And all her thoughts as fair within her eyes, 
As bottom agates seen to wave and float 
In crystal currents of clear morning seas. 

So stood that same fair creature at the door. 
Then Lady Psyche, "Ah — ■ Melissa — you ! 
You heard us ? " and Melissa, " O pardon me ! 
I heard, I could not help it, did not wish : 
But, dearest Lady, pray you fear me not. 
Nor think I bear that heart within my breast, 
To give three gallant gentlemen to death." 
" I trust you," said the other, " for we two 
Were always friends, none closer, elm and vine : 



A MEDLEY. 243 

But yet your mother's jealous temperament — 

Let not your prudence, dearest, drowse, or prove 

The Danaid of a leaky vase, for fear 

This whole foundation ruin, and I lose 

My honor, these their lives." "Ah, fear me not," 

Replied Melissa, "no — I would not tell, 

No, not for all Aspasia's cleverness. 

No, not to answer, Madam, all those hard things 

That Sheba came to ask of Solomon." 

" Be it so," the other, " that we still may lead 

The new light up, and culminate in peace. 

For Solomon may come to Sheba yet." 

Said Cyril, " Madam, he the wisest man 

Feasted the woman wisest then, in halls 

Of Lebanonlan cedar : nor should you 

(Tho' Madam you should answer, lae would ask) 

Less Avelcome find among us, if you came 

Among us, debtors for our lives to you, 

M}self for something more." He said not what. 

But '' Thanks," she answer'd, " go : we have been too long 

Together : keep your hoods about the face ; 

They do so that affect abstraction here. 

Speak little ; mix not with the rest ; and hold 

Your promise : all, I trust, may yet be well." • 

We turn'd to go, but Cyril took the child, 
And held her round the knees against his waist. 
And blew the swoU'n cheek of a trumpeter. 
While Psyche watch'd them, smiling, and the child 
Push'd her flat hand against his face and laugh'd ; 
And thus our conference closed. 

And then we stroll'd 
For half the day thro' stately theatres 
Bench'd crescent-wise. In each we sat, we heard 
The grave Professor. On the lecture-slate 
The circle rounded under female hands 
With flawless demonstration : follow'd then 
A classic lecture, rich In sentimcmt. 
With scraps of thundrous Epic lilted out 
By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies 
And quoted odes, and jewels five words long, 
That on the stretch'd Ibrefinger of all Time 
Sparkle forever : then we dipt in all 
That treats of whatsoever is, the state. 
The total chronicles of man, the mind, 



244 THE PRINCESS : 

The morals, something of the frame, the roc':, 

The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, the flower, 

Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest. 

And whatsoever can be taught and known ; 

Till like three horses that have broken fence, 

And glutted all night long breast-deep in corn. 

We issued gorged with knowledge, and I spoke : 

" Why, Sirs, they do all this as well as we." 

" They hunt old trails," said Cyril, " very well ; 

But when did woman ever yet invent ? " 

" Ungracious ! " answer'd Florian, " have you learnt 

No more from Psyche's lecture, you that talk'd 

The trash that made me sick, and almost sad ? " 

" O trash," he said, " but with a kernel in it. 

Should I not call her wise, who made me wise ? 

And learnt ? I learnt more from her in a flash. 

Than if my brainpan were an empty hull, 

And every Muse tumbled a science in. 

A thousand hearts lie fallow in these halls, 

And round these halls a thousand baby-loves 

Fly twanging headless arrows at the hearts, 

Whence follows many a vacant pang ; but O 

With me, Sir, enter'd in the bigger boy. 

The Head of all the golden-shafted firm, 

The long-limb'd lad that had a Psyche too ; 

He cleft me thro' the stomacher ; and now 

What think you of it, Florian ? do I chase 

The substance or the shadow ? will it hold ? 

I have no sorcerer's malison on me. 

No ghostly hauntings like his Highness. I 

Flatter myself that always everywhere 

I know the substance when 1 see it. Well, 

Are castles shadows ? Three of them ? Is she, 

The sweet proprietress, a shadow ? If not, 

Shall those three castles patch my tatter'd coat ? 

For dear are those three castles to my wants. 

And dear is sister Psyche to my heart. 

And two dear things are one of double worth. 

And much I might have said, but that my zone 

Unmann'd me : then the Doctors ! O to hear 

The Doctors ! O to watch the thirsty plants 

Imbibing ! once or twice I thought to roar. 

To break my chain, to shake my mane : but thou. 

Modulate me, Soul of mincing mimicry ! 

Make liquid treble of that bassoon, my throat ; 



A MEDLEY. 245 

Abase those eyes that ever loved to meet 
Star-sistei-s answering under crescent brows ; 
Abate the stride, which speaks of man, and loose 
A flying charm of blushes o'er this cheek, 
Where they like swallows coming out of time 
Will wonder why they came : but hark the bell 
For dinner, let us go ! " 

And in we stream'd 
Among the columns, pacing staid and still 
By twos and tln-ees, till all from end to end 
With beauties every shade of brown and fair 
Tn colors gayer than the morning mist. 
The long hall glitter'd like a bed of floAvers, 
How might a man not wander from his wits 
Pierced thro' with eyes, but that I kept mine own 
Intent on her, who rapt in glorious dreams, 
The second-sight of some Astrasan age, 
Sat compass'd with professors : they, the while, 
Discuss'd a doubt and tost it to and fro : 
A clamor thicken'd, mixt with inmost terms 
Of art and science : Lady Blanche alone 
Of faded form and haughtiest lineaments, 
With all her autumn tresses falsely brown. 
Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cat 
In act to spring. 

At last a solemn grace 
Concluded, and we sought the gardens : there 
One walk'd reciting by herself, and one 
In this hand held a volume as to read. 
And smoothed a petted peacock down with that : 
Some to a low song oar'd a shallop by. 
Or under arches of the marble bridge 
Hung, shadow'd from the heat : some hid and sought 
In the orange thickets : others tost a ball 
Above the fountain-jets, and back again 
With laughter : others lay about the lawns, 
Of the older sort, and mm-mur'd that their May 
Was passing : what was learning unto them ? 
They wish'd to marry ; they could rule a house ; 
Men hated learned women : but we three 
Sat muffled like the Fates; and often came 
Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts 
Of gentle satire, kin to charity, 

That harm'd not : tlien day droopt ; the chapel-beUs 
Call'd us : we left the walks ; we mixt with those 



246 • THE PRINCESS : 

Six hundred maidens clad in purest white, 
Before two streams of light from wall to wall, 
While the great organ almost burst his pipes. 
Groaning for power, and rolling thro' the court 
A long melodious thunder to the sound 
Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies. 
The work of Ida, to call down from Heaven 
A blessino; on her labors for the world. 



Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go. 
Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me ; 
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 

Father will come to thee soon; 
Eest, rest, on mother's breast. 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Father Avill come to his babe in the nest. 
Silver sails all out of the west 

Under the silver moon : 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 



III. 
Morn in the white wake of the morning star 
Came furrowing all the orient into gold. 
We rose, and each by other drest with care 
Descended to the courts that lay three parts 
In shadow, but the Muses' heads were touch'd 
Above the darkness from their native East. 

Therfe while we stood beside the fount, and watch'd 
Or seem'd to watch the dancing bubble, approach'd 
Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of sleep. 
Or grief, and glowing round her dewy eyes 
The circled Iris of a night of tears ; 
"And fly," she cried, " O fly, while yet you may ! 
My mother knows : " and when I ask'd her " how," 
" My fault, " she wept, " my fault ! and yet not mine ; 
Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon me. 
My mother, 't is her wont from night to night 



A MEDLEY. ♦ 247 

To rail at Lady Psyche and her side. 

Slie says the Pnneess should have been the Head, 

Hei-self' and Lady Psyche the two arras ; 

And so it was agreed when first they came ; 

But Lady Psyche was the right hand now, 

And she the left, or not, or seldom used ; 

Hei-s more than half the students, all the love. 

And so last night she fell to canvass you : 

Her countrywomen ! she did not envy her. 

' AYho ever saw such wild barbarians ? 

Girls ? — more like men ! ' and at these words the snake, 

My secret, seem'd to stir within my breast ; 

And oh, Sirs, could I help it, but my cheek 

Began to burn and burn, and her lynx eye 

To fix and make me hotter, till she laugh'd : 

' O marvellously modest maiden, you ! 

Men ! girls, like men ! why, if they had been men 

You need not set your thoughts in rubric thus 

For wholesale comment.' Pardon, I am shamed 

That I must needs repeat for my excuse 

What looks so little graceful : ' men ' (for still 

My mother Avent revolving on the word) 

'And so they are, — very like men indeed — 

And with that woman closeted for hours ! ' 

Then came these dreadful words out one by one, 

' Why — these — are — men : ' I shuddered : ' and you 

know it.' 
' O ask me nothing,' I said : ' And she knoAvs too, 
And she conceals it.' So my mother clutch'd 
The truth at once, but with no word from me ; 
And now thus early risen she goes to inform 
The Princess : Lady Psyche will be crush'd ; 
But you may yet be saved, and therefore fly : 
But heal me with your pardon ere you go." 

" What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a blush ? " 
Said Cyril : " Pale one, blush again : than wear 
Those lilies, better blush our lives away. 
Yet let us breathe for one hour more in Heaven," 
He added, " lest some classic Angel speak 
In scorn of us, ' they mounted, Ganymedes, 
To tumble, Vulcans, on the second morn.' 
But I will melt this marble Into wax 
To yield us farther furlough : " and he went. 



218 * THE PRINCESS : 

Melissa shook her doubtful curls, and thought 
He scarce would prosper. " Tell us," Florian ask'd, 
'' How grew this feud betwixt the right and left." 
" O long ago," she said, " betwixt these two 
Division smoulders hidden ; 't is my mother, 
Too jealous, often fretful as the wind 
Pent in a crevice : much I bear with her : 
I never knew my father, but she says 
(God help her) she was wedded to a fool ; 
And' still she rail'd against the state of things. 
She had the care of Lady Ida's youth. 
And from the Queen's decease she brought her up. 
But when your sister came she won the heart 
Of Ida : they were stiU together, grew 
(For so they said themselves) inosculated ; 
Consonant chords that shiver to one note ; 
One mind in all things : yet my mother still 
Affirms your Psyche thieved her theories, 
And angled with them for her pupil's love : 
She calls her plagiarist ; I know not what : 
But I must go : I dare not tarry : " and light, 
As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled. 

Then murmur'd Florian, gazing after her, 
" An open-hearted maiden, true and pure. 
If I could love, why this were she : how pretty 
Her blushing was, and how she blush'd again, 
As if to close with Cyril's random wish : 
Not like your Princess cramm'd with erring pride, 
Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags in tow." 

" Tlie crane," I said, " may chatter of the crane, 
The dove may murmur of the dove, but I, 
An eagle, clang an eagle to the sphere. 
My princess, O my princess ! true she errs, 
But in her own grand way : being herself 
Three times more noble than three score of men, 
She sees herself in every woman else, 
And so she wears her error like a crown 
To blind the truth and me : for her, and her, 
Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix 
The nectar ; but — ah she — whene'er she moves 
The Samian Here rises and she speaks 
A Memnon smitten with the morning Sun." 



J 



A MEDLEY. ' 249 

So saying, from the court ^ve paced, and gain'd 
The terrace ranged along the Northern front. 
And leaning there on those balusters, high 
Above the empurpled champaign, drank the gale 
That blown about the foilage underneath, 
And sated with the innumerable rose, 
Beat bahn upon your eyelids. Hither came 
Cyril, and yawning, " O hard task," he cried ; 
" No fighting shadows here ! I forced a way 
Thro' soild opposition crabb'd and gnarl'd. 
Better to clear prime forests, heave and thump 
A league of street in summer solstice down, 
Tlian hammer at this reverend gentlewoman. 
I knock'd and, bidden, enter'd ; found her there 
At point to move, and settled in her eyes 
Tlie gi-een malignant light of coming stonn. 
Sir, I was courteous, every phrase well-oil'd, 
As man's could be ; yet maiden-meek I pray'd 
Concealment : she demanded who we were, 
And why we came ? I fabled nothing fair. 
But, your example pilot, told her all. 
Up went the hush'd amaze of hand and eye. 
But when I dwelt upon your old affiance, 
She answer'd sharply that I talk'd astray. 
I urged the fierce inscription on the gate. 
And our three lives. True — we had limed ourselves 
With open eyes, and we must take the chance. 
But such extremes, I told her, well might harm 
The woman's cause. ' Not more than now,' she said, 
' So puddled as it is with favoritism.' 
I tried the mother's heart. Shame might befall 
Melissa, knowing, saying not she knew : 
Her answer was, ' Leave me to deal with that.' 
I spoke of Avar to come and many deaths. 
And she replied, her duty was to speak. 
And duty duty, clear of consequences. 
I grew discouraged. Sir ; but since I knew 
No rock so hard but that a little wave 
May beat admission in a thousand years, 
I recommenced ; ' Decide not ere you pause. 
I find you here but in the second place, 
Some say the third — the authentic foundress you. 
I offer boldly : we will seat you highest : 
Wink at our advent : help my prince to gain 
His rightful bride, and here I promise you 



250 THE PRINCESS : 

Some palace in our land, where you shall reign 
The head and heart of all our fair she-world, 
And your great name flow on with broadening time 
Forever.' Well, she balanced this a little, 
And told me she Avould answer us to-day, 
Meantime be mute : thus much, nor more I gained." 

He ceasing, came a message from the Head. 
" That afternoon the Princess rode to take 
The dip of certain strata to the North. 
Would we go with her ? we sliould find the land 
Worth seeing ; and the river made a fall 
Out yonder : " then she pointed on to where 
A double hiU ran up his furrowy forks 
Beyond the thick-leaved platans of the vale. 

Agreed to, this, the day fled on thro' all 
Its range of duties to the appointed hour. 
Then summon'd to the porch we went. She stood 
Among her maidens, higher by the head, 
Her back against a pillar, her foot on one 
Of those tame leopards. Kittenlike he roll'd 
And paw'd about her sandal. I drew near ; 
I gazed. On a sudden my strange seizure came 
Upon me, the weird vision of our house : 
The Princess Ida seem'd a hollow show, 
Her gay-fmT'd cats a painted fantasy, 
Her college and her maidens, empty masks, 
And I myself the shadow of a dream, 
For all things were and were not. Yet I felt 
My heart beat thick with passion and with awe ; 
Then from my breast the involantary sigh 
Brake, as she smote me with the light of eyes 
That lent my knee desire to kneel, and shook 
My pulses, till to horse we got, and so 
Went forth in long retinue following up 
The river as it narrow'd to the hills. 

I rode beside her and to me she said : 
" O fi^iend, we trust that you esteem'd us not 
Too harsh to your companion yestermorn ; 
Unwillingly we spake." " No — not to her," 
I answer'd, " but to one of whom we spake 
Your Highness might have seem'd the thing you say." 
"Again ? " she cried, " are you ambassadresses 






A MEDTEY, 251 

From liim to me ? we give you, being strange, 
A license : speali, and let the topic die." 

I stammer'd that I knew him — coidd have wish'd — 
'• Our king expects — was there no precontract ? 
There is no truer-hearted — ah, you seem 
AU he prefigured, and he could not see 
The bird of passage flying south but long'd 
To follow : surely, if your Highness keep 
Your purport, you will shock hmi ev'n to death, 
Or baser courses, children of despair." 

" Poor boy," she said, " can he not read — no books ? 
Quoit, tennis, ball — no games ? nor deals in that 
Which men delight in, martial exercise ? 
To nui-se a blind ideal like a girl, 
Methinks he seems no better than a girl ; 
As girls Avere once, as we ourself have been : 
We had our dreams ; perhaps he mixt with them : 
AYe touch on our dead self, nor shun to do it. 
Being other — since Ave learnt our meaning here, 
To lift the woman's fall'n divinity 
Upon an even pedestal with man." 

She paused, and added with a haughtier smile, 
"And as to precontracts, we move, my friend. 
At no man's beck, but know ourself and thee, 

Yashti, noble Yashti ! Summon'd out 
She kept her state, and left the drunken king 
To brawl at Shushan underneath the palms." 

"Alas your Highness breathes full East," I said, 
" On that which leans to you. I know the Prince, 

1 prize his truth : and then how vast a work 
To assail this gray preeminence of man ! 
You grant me license ; might I use it ? think ; 
Ere half be done perchance your life may fail ; 
Then comes the feebler heiress of your plan, 
And takes and ruins all ; and thus your pains 
May only make that footprint upon sand 
Which old-recurring waves of prejudice 
Resmooth to nothing : might I dread that you. 
With only Fame for spouse and your great deeds 
For issue, yet may live in vain, and miss. 
Meanwhile, what every Avoman counts her due, 
Love, cliildren, happiness ? " 



252 THE PKINCESS : 

And .>Le exclaim'd, 
" Peace, you young savage of the Novthern wild ! 
What ! tlio' your Prince's love were like a God's, 
Have we not made ourself the sacrifice ? ' 

You are bold indeed : we are not talk'd to thus : 
^ Yet will we say for children, would they grew 
Like field-flowers everywhere ! we like them well : 
But children die ; and let me tell you, girl, 
Howe'er you babble, great deeds cannot die : 
They with the sun and moon renew their light 
Forever, blessing those that look on them. 
Children — that men may pluck them from our hearts 
Kill us with pity, break us with ourselves — 
O — children — there is nothing upon earth 
More miserable than she that has a son 
And sees him err : nor would we work for fame ; 
Tho' she perhaps might reap the applause of Great, 
Who learns the one POU sto whence after-hands 
May move the world, tho' she herself effect 
But little : wherefore up and act, nor shrinlc 
For fear our solid aim be dissipated 
By frail successors. Would, indeed, we had been, 
In lieu of many mortal flies, a race 
Of giants living, each, a thousand years. 
That we might see our own work out, and watch 
The sandy footprint harden into stone." 

I answer'd nothing, doubtful in myself 
If that strange Poet-princess with her grand 
Imao;inations mio;ht at all be won. 
And she broke out interpreting my thoughts : 

" No doubt we seem a kind of monster to you ; 
We are used to that : for women, up till this 
Cramp'd under worse than South-sea-isle taboo. 
Dwarfs of the gynaeceum, fail so far 
In high desire, they know not, cannot guess 
How much their welfare is a passion to us. 
If we could give them surer, quicker proof — 
Oh if our end were less achievable 
By slow approaches, than by single act 
Of immolation, any phase of death, 
We were as prompt to spring against the pikes, 
Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it, 
To compass our dear sisters' liberties." 



A MEDLEY. 253 

She bow'd as if to veil a noble tear ; 
And up Ave came to Avherc the river sloped 
To plunge in cataract, shattering on black blocks 
A breadth .of thunder. O'er it shook the woods, 
And danced the color, and, below, stuck out 
The bones of some vast bulk that lived and roar'd 
Before man was. She gazed awhile and said, 
"As these rude bones to us, are we to her 
That will be." " Dare we dream of that," I ask'd, 
" Which wrought us, as the workman and his work, 
That practice betters ? " " How," she cried, " you love 
The metaphysics ! read and earn our prize, 
A golden broach : beneath an emerald plane 
Sits Diotima, teaching him that died 
Of hemlock ; our device ; wrought to the life ; 
She rapt upon her subject, he on her : 
For there are schools for all." "And yet," I said, 
" ]Metliinks I have not found among them all 
One anatomic." " Nay, we thought of that," 
She answer'd, " but it pleased us not : in truth 
"We shudder but to dream our maids should ape 
Those monstrous males that carve the living hound, 
And cram him Avith the fragments of the grave, 
Or in the dark dissolving human heart, 
And holy secrets of this microcosm, 
Dabbhng a shameless hand Avith shameful jest, 
Encarnalize their spirits : yet Ave knoAv 
Knowledge is knowledge, and this matter hangs : 
Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty, 
Nor willing men should come amono; us, learnt. 
For many weary moons before Ave came, 
This craft of healing. Were you sick, ourself 
AYould tend upon you. To your question now. 
Which touches on the Avorkman and his Avork. 
Let there be lioht and there Avas lioht : 't is so : 
For Avas, and is, and Avill be, are but is ; 
And all creation is one act at once. 
The birth of light : but Ave that are not all, 
As parts, can see but parts, noAv this, noAv that, 
And live, perforce, from thought to thought, and make 
One act a phantom of succession : thus 
Our Aveakness someliOAv shapes the shadoAv, Time ; 
But in the shadow Avill Ave Avork, and mould 
The Avoman to tlie fuller day." 

She spake 
With kindled eyes : Ave rode a league beyond, 



254 THE PRINCESS : 

And, o'er a bridge of pinewood crossing, came 

On flowery levels underneath the crag, 

Full of all beauty. " O how sweet," I said, 

(For I was half-oblivious of my mask) 

" To linger here with one that loved us." " Yea," 

She answer'd, " or with fair philosophies 

That lift the fancy ; for indeed these fields 

Are lovely, lovelier not the Elysian lawns, 

Where paced the Demigods of old, and saw 

The soft white vapor streak the crowned towers 

Built to the Sun : " then, turning to her maids, 

" Pitch our pavilion here upon the sward ; 

Lay out the viands." At the word, they raised 

A tent of satin, elaborately wrought 

With fair Corinna's triumph ; here she stood, 

Engirt with many a florid maiden-cheek, 

The woman-conqueror ; woman-conquer'd there 

The bearded Victor of ten-thousand hymns, ■ 

And all the men mourn'd at his side : but we 

Set forth to climb ; then, climbing, Cyril kept 

With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I 

With mine affianced. Many a little hand 

Glanced like a touch of sunshine on the rocks. 

Many a light foot shone like a jewel set 

In the dark crag : and then we turn'd, we wound 

About the cliffs, the copses, out and in. 

Hammering and clinking, chattering stony names 

Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap and tuff. 

Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the Sun 

Grew broader toward his death and fell, and all 

The rosy heights came out above the lawns. 



The splendor falls on castle-walls 

And snowy summits old in story : 
'The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glor3^ 
BloAv, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O hark, hear! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
BloAV, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 



A MEDLEY. 255 

love, tliey die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field oi- river : 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wikl echoes flying. 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 



IV. 
" There sinks the nebulous star we call tlie Sun, 
If that hypothesis of theirs be sound," 
Said Ida ; " let us down and rest ; " and we 
Down from the lean and wrinkled precipices, 
By every coppice-feather'd chasni and cleft, 
Dropt thro' the ambrosial gloom to where below 
No bigger than a glow-worm shone the tent 
Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she lean'd on me. 
Descending ; once or twice she lent her hand, 
And blissful palpitations in the blood, 
Stirring a sudden transport rose and fell. 

But when we planted level feet, and dipt 
Beneath the satin dome and enter'd in. 
There leaning deep in broider'd down we sank 
Our elbows : on a tripod in the midst 
A fragrant flame rose, and before us glow'd 
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and gold. 

Then she, " Let some one sing to us : lightlier move 
The minutes fledged with music " ; and a maid, 
Of those beside her, smote her harp, and sang. 

" Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

" Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail. 
That brings our friends up from the underworld, 
Sad 'as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

"Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 



256 THE PRINCESS : 

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

" Dear as remember'd kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
Death in Life, the days that are no more." 

She ended with such passion that the tear. 
She sang of, shook and fell, an erring pearl 
Lost in her bosom : but with some disdain 
Answer'd the Princess, " If indeed there haunt 
About the moulder'd lodges of the Past 
So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men, 
Well needs it we should cram our ears with wool 
And so pace by : but thine are fancies hatch'd 
In silken-folded idleness; nor is it 
Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, 
But trim our sails, and let old bygones be. 
While down the streams that float us each and all . 
To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice. 
Throne after throne, and molten on the waste 
Becomes a cloud : for all things serve their time 
Toward that great year of equal mights and rights, 
Nor would I fight with iron laws, in the end 
Found golden : let the past be past ; let be 
Their cancell'd Babels : tho' the rough kex break 
The starr'd mosaic, and the beard-blown goat 
Hang on the shaft, and the wild fig-tree split 
Their monstrous idols, care not while we hear 
A trumpet in the distance pealing news 
Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, burns 
Above the unrisen morrow : " then to me ; 
" Know you no song of your own land," she said, 
" Not such as moans about the retrospect, 
But deals with the other distance and the hues 
Of promise; not a death's-head at the wine." 

Then I remember'd one myself had made, 
What time I watch'd the swallow winging south 
From mine own land, part made long since, and part 
Now while I sang, and maidenlike as far 
As I could ape their treble, did I sing. 



A MEDLEY. 257 

'• O Swallow, Swallow, flyino-, flying South, 
Flv to her, and fiiU upon her gilded eaves, 
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 

" O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, 
That bright and fierce and ficlvle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 

" Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

" O were I thou that she might talce me in, 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 

" Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe hei'self, when all the woods are green ? 

" tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown : 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 

" O tell her, brief is life but love is long. 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

" O Swallow, flying from the golden woods. 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine. 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee." 

I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each. 
Like the Ithacensian suitors in old time. 
Stared with great eyes, and laugh'd with alien lips. 
And knew not what they meant ; for still my voice 
Rang false : but smiling, " Not for thee," she said, 
" O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 
Shall burst her veil : marsh-divers, rather, maid. 
Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow-crake 
Grate her harsh kindred in the grass : and this 
A mere love-poem ! O for such, my friend. 
We hold them slight : they mind us of the time 
When we made bricks in Egypt. Knaves are men. 
That lute and flute fantastic tenderness, 
17 



258 THE PRINCESS : 

And dress the victim to the offering up, 

And paint the gates of Hell with Paradise, 

And play the slave to gain the tyranny. 

Poor soul ! I had a maid of honor once ; 

She wept her true eyes blind for such a one, 

A rogue of canzonets and serenades. 

I loved her. Peace be with her. She is dead. 

So they blaspheme the muse ! But great is song 

Used to great ends : ourself have often tried 

Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have dash'd 

The passion of the prophetess ; for song 

Is duer unto freedom, force and growth 

Of spirit than to junketing and love. 

Love is it ? Would this same mock-love, and this 

Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter bats. 

Till all men grew to rate us at our worth. 

Not vassals to be beat, nor petty babes 

To be dandled, no, but living wills, and sphered 

Whole in ourselves and owed to none. Enough ! 

But now to leaven play with profit, you, 

Know you no song, the true growth of your soil. 

That gives the manners of yom^ countrywomen ? " 

She spoke and turn'd her sumptuous head with eyes 
Of shining expectation fixt on mine. 
Then while I dragg'd my brains for such a song, 
Cyril, with whom the bell-mouth'd glass had wrought, 
Or master'd by the sense of sport, began 
To troll a careless, careless tavern-catch 
Of Moll and Meg, and strange experiences 
Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded at him, 
I frowning. Psyche flush'd and wann'd and shook; 
The lilj'like Melissa droop'd her brows ; 
" Forbear," the Princess cried ; " Forbear, Sir," I; 
And heated thro' and thro' with wrath and love, 
I smote him on the breast ; he started up ; 
There rose a shriek as of a city sackVl ; 
Melissa clamor'd, " Flee the death ; " " To horse," 
Said Ida ; " home ! to horse ! " and fled, as flies 
A troop of snowy doves athwart the dusk. 
When some one batters at the dovecote-doors ; 
Disorderly the women. " Alone I stood 
With Florian, cursing Cyril, vext at heart, 
In the pavilion : there like parting hopes 
I heard them passing from me : hoof by hoof, 



A MEDLEY. 



259 



And every hoof a knell to my desires, 

Clang'd on the bridge ; and then another shriek, 

"The Head, the Head, the Princess, O the Head"! 

For blind Avith rage she miss'd the plank, and roll'd 

In the river. Out I sprang from gloAv to gloom : 

There whirl'd her white robe like a blossom'd branch 

Eapt to the horrible fall : a glance I gave. 

No more ; but Avoman-vested as I AA'as 

Plunged ; and the flood dreAv ; yet I caught her ; then 

Oaring one ai'm, and bearing in my left 

The Aveight of all the hopes of half the A\orld, 

Strove to buffet to land in Aain. A tree 

Was half-disrooted from his place and stoop'd 

To drench his dark locks in the gurgling Avave 

Mid-channel. Right on this Ave drove and caught, 

And gTasping doAA'n the boughs I gain'd the shore. 

There stood her maidens glimmeringly group'd 
In the holloAv bank. One reaching forAvard drcAV 
My burden from mine arms ; they cried, " she lives : " 
They bore her back into the tent : but I, 
So much a kind of shame Avithin me wrought, 
Not yet endured to meet her opening eyes. 
Nor found my friends ; but pusli'd alone on foot 
(For since her horse was lost I left her mine) 
Across the woods, and less from Indian craft 
Than beelike instinct hivcAvard, found at length 
The garden-portals. Two great statues, Art 
And Science, Caryatids, lifted np 
A Aveight of emblem, and betAvixt Avere valves 
Of open-Avork in Avbich the hunter rued 
His rash intrusion, manlike, but his brows 
Had sprouted, and the branches thereupon 
Spread out at top, and grimly spiked the gates. 

A little space was left between the horns. 
Thro' which I clamber'd o'er at top with pain, 
Dropt on the SAvard, and up the linden-Avalks, 
And, tost on thoughts that changed from hue to hue, 
NoAV poring on the gloAVAvorm, noAv the star, 
I paced the terrace, till the Bear had Avheel'd 
Thro' a great arc his seven sIoav suns. 

A step 
Of lightest eclio, then a loftier form 
Than female, moving thro' the uncertain gloom, 



260 THE PRINCESS : 

Disturb'd me with the doubt " if this were she," 

But it was Florian. " Hist, O Hist," he said, 

They seek us : out so late is out of rules. 

Moreover ' seize the strano-ers ' is the cry. 

How came you here ? " I told him : " I," said he, 

" Last of the train, a moral leaper, I, 

To whom none spake, half-sick at heart, return'd. 

Arriving all confused among the rest 

With hooded brows I crept into the hall. 

And, couch'd behind a Judith, underneath 

The head of Holofernes peep'd and saw. 

Girl after girl was call'd to trial : each 

Disclaim'd all knowledge of us : last of all, 

Mehssa : trust me, Sir, I pitied her- 

She, questional if she knew us men, at first 

"Was silent ; closer prest, denied it not : 

And then, demanded if her mother knew, 

Or Ps3The, she affirm'd not, or denied : 

From whence the Royal mind, familiar with her, 

Easily gather'd either guilt. She sent 

For Psyche, but she was not there ; she call'd 

For Psyche's child to cast it from the doors ; 

She sent for Blanche to accuse her face to face ; 

And I slipt out : but whither will you now ? 

And where are Psyche, Cyril ? both are fled : 

What, if together ? that were not so well. 

Would rather we had never come ! I dread 

His wildness, and the chances of the dark." 

"And yet," I said, " you wrong him more than I 
That struck him : this is proper to the clown, 
Tho' smock'd, or furr'd and purpled, still the clown. 
To harm the thing that trusts him, and to shame 
That which he says he loves : for Cyril, howe'er 
He deal in frolic, as to-night — the song 
Might have been worse and sinn'd in grosser lips 
Beyond all pardon — as it is, I hold 
These flashes on the surface are not he. 
He has a solid base of temperament : 
But as the water-lily starts and slides 
Upon the level in little puffs of wind, 
Tho' anchor'd to the bottom, such is he." 

Scarce had I ceased when from a tamarisk near 
Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, " Names : " 



261 



A MEDLEY. 

He, standing still, was clutcli'd ; but I began 
To thrld the musky-circled mazes, wind 
And double in and out the boles, and race 
By all the fountains : fleet I was of foot : 
Before me shower'd the rose in flakes ; behind 
I heard the puff'd pursuer; at mine ear 
Bubbled the nightingale and heeded not, 
And secret laughter tickled all my soul. 
At last I hook'd my ankle in a vine, 
That claspt the feet of a INInemosyne, 
And falling on my face was caught and known. 

They haled us to the Princess where she sat 
High in the hall : above her droop'd a lamj), 
And made the single jewel on her brow 
Burn like the mystic fire on a mast-head, 
Prophet of storm : a handmaid on each side 
Bow'd toward her, combing out her long black hair 
Damp from the river ; and close behind her stood 
Eight daughtei's of the plough, stronger than men. 
Huge Avomen blowzed with health, and wind, and rain, 
And labor. Each" was like a Druid rock ; ■ 
Or like a spire of land that stands apart 
Cleft fi'om the main, and wail'd about with mews. 

Then, as we came, the crowd dividing clove 
An advent to the throne : and there beside, 
Half-naked as if caught at once from bed 
And tumbled on the purple footcloth, lay 
The lily-shining child ; and on the left, 
Bow'd on her palms and folded up from wrong. 
Her round white shoulder shaken with her sobs, 
Melissa knelt ; but Lady Blanche erect 
Stood up and spake, an affluent orator. 

" It was not thus, O Princess, in old days : 
You prized my counsel, lived upon my lips : 
I led you then to all the Castalies ; 
I fed you Avith the milk of every Muse ; 
I loved you like this kneeler, and you me. 
Your second mother : those were gracious times. 
Then came your new friend: you began to change — 
I saw it and grieved — to slacken and to cool ; 
Till taken with her seeming openness 
You turn'd your warmer currents all to her, 



262 THE PRINCESS : 

To me you froze : this was my meed for all. 

Yet I bore up in part from ancient love, 

And partly that I hoped to win you back, 

And partly conscious of my own deserts, 

And partly that you were my civil head, 

And chiefly you were born for something great. 

In which I might your fellow-worker be, 

When time should serve ; and thus a noble scheme 

Grew up from seed we two long since had sown ; 

In us true growth, in her a Jonah's gourd. 

Up in one night and due to sudden sun : 

We took this palace ; but even from the first 

You stood in your own hght and darken'd mine. 

What student came but that you planed her path 

To Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise, 

A foreigner, and I your countrywoman, 

I your old friend and tried, she new in all ? 

But still her lists were swell'd and mine were lean ; 

Yet I bore up in hope she would be known : 

Then came these wolves : tliey knew her : tliey endured, 

Long-closeted with her the yestermorn. 

To tell her what they were, and she to hear : 

And me none told : not less to an eye like mine, 

A lidless watcher of the public weal. 

Last night, their mask was patent, and my foot 

Was to you : but I thought again : I fear'd 

To meet a cold ' We thank you, we shall hear of it 

From Lady Psyche : ' you had gone to her, 

She told, perforce ; and winning easy grace, 

No doubt, for slight delay, remain'd among us 

In our young nursery still unknown, the stem 

Less grain than touchwood, while my honest heat 

Were all miscounted as malignant haste 

To push my rival out of place and power. 

But public use required she should be known ; 

And since my oath was ta'en for public use, 

I broke the letter of it to keep the sense. 

I spoke not then at first, but watch'd them well, 

Saw that they kept apart, no mischief done ; 

And yet this day (tho' you should hate me for it) 

I came to tell you ; found that you had gone, 

Ridd'n to the hills, she likewise : now, I thought, 

That surely she will speak ; if not, then I : 

Did she ? These monsters blazon'd what they were, 

According to the coarseness of their kind, 



A MEDLEY, 263 

For thus I liear ; and known at last (my work) 
And flill of cowardice and guilty sliame, 
I grant in her some sense of shame, she tiles ; 
And I remain on whom to wreak yom- rage, 
I, that have lent my life to build up yours, 
I that have wasted here health, wealth, and time, 
And talents, I — you know it — I will not boast : 
Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan, 
Divorced from my experience, will be chaiF 
For every gust of chance, and men Avill say 
We did not know the real light, but chased 
The wisp that flickers where no foot can tread." 

She ceased : the Princess ansAver'd coldly, " Good : 
Yom- oath is broken : we dismiss you : go. 
For this lost lamb (she pointed to the child) 
Our mind is changed : Ave take it to ourself " 

Thereat the Lady stretch'd a vulture throat, 
And shot from crooked lips a haggard smile. 
" Tlie plan AA^as mine. I built the nest," she said, 
" To hatch the cuckoo. Else ! " and stoop'd to updrag 
Melissa : she, half on her mother propt, 
Half-drooping from her, turn'd her face, and cast 
A liquid look on Ida, full of prayer, 
"Which melted Florian's fancy as she hung, 
A Xiobean daughter, one arm out. 
Appealing to the bolts of Heaven ; and Avhile 
We gazed upon her came a little stir 
About the dooi-s, and on a sudden rush'd 
Among us, out of breath, as one pursued, 
A woman-post in flying raiment. Fear 
Stared in her eyes, and chalk'd her face, and Aving'd 
Her transit to the throne, Avhereby she fell. 
Delivering seal'd despatches, Avhich the Head 
Took half-amazed, and in her lion's mood 
Tore open, silent Ave Avith blind surmise 
Regarding, AAdiile she read, till over broAV 
And cheek and bosom brake the Avrathful bloom 
As of some fire against a stormy cloud, 
When the Avild peasant rights himself^ the rick 
Flames, and his anger reddens in tlie heavens ; 
For anger most it seem'd, Avhlle noAv her breast, 
Beaten Avlth some gi-eat passion at her heart, 
Palpitated, her hand shook, and Ave heard 



2G4 THE PllINCESS : 

In the dead hush, the papers that she held 

Rustle : at once the lost lamb at her feet 

Sent out a bitter bleating for its dam ; 

Tlie plaintive cry jarr'd on her ire ; she crush'd 

The scrolls together, made a sudden turn 

As if to speak, but, utterance failing her, 

She whirl'd them on to me, as who should say, 

" Read," and I read — two letters — one her sire's. 

" Fair daughter, when we sent the Prince your way 
We knew not your ungracious laws, which learnt. 
We, conscious of what temper you are built. 
Came all in haste to hinder wrong, but fell 
Into his father's hands, who has this night, 
You lying close upon his territory, 
Sllpt round and in the dark invested you, 
And here he keeps me hostage for his son." 

The second was my father's, running thus : 
" You have our son : touch not a hair of his head : 
Render him up unscathed : give him your hand : 
Cleave to your contract : tho' indeed we hear 
You hold the woman is the better man ; 
A rampant heresy, such as if it spread 
Would make all women kick against their Lords 
Thro' all the world, and which might well deserve 
That we this night should pluck your palace down ; 
And we will do it, unless you send us back 
• Our son, on the Instant, whole." 

So far I read ; 
And then stood up and spoke impetuously. 

" O not to pry and peer on your reserve, 
But led by golden wishes, and a hope 
The child of regal compact, did T break 
Your precinct ; not a scorner of your sex 
But venerator, zealous it should be 
All that it might be : hear me, for I bear, 
Tho' man, yet human, whatsoe'er your wrongs. 
From the flaxen curl to the gray lock a life 
Less mine than yours : my nurse would tell me of you ; 
I babbled for you, as babies for the moon. 
Vague brightness ; when a boy, you stoop'd to me 
From all high places, lived in^ all fair lights. 
Came In long breezes rapt from Inmost south 



A MEDLEY. 265 

And bloMai to inmost nortli ; at eve and dawn 

With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods ; 

The leader wildswan in among the stars 

Wouhl clang it, and lapt in wreaths of glow-worm light 

The mellow breaker murmnr'd Ida. Now, 

Because I would have reach'd you, had you been 

Sphered up with Cassiopeia, or the enthroned 

Persephone in Hades, now at length, 

Those winters of abeyance all worn out, 

A man I came to see you : but, indeed, 

Not in this frequence can I lend full tongue, 

noble Ida, to those thoughts that wait 
On you, their centre : let me say but this. 
That many a famous man and woman, town 
And landskip, have I heard of, after seen 

The dwarfs of presage : tho' when known, there grew 
Another kind of beauty in detail 
Made them worth knowing ; but in you I found 
My boyish dream involved and dazzled down 
And master'd, while that after-beauty makes 
Such head from act to act, from hour to hour, 
Within me, that except you slay me here. 
According to your bitter statute-book, 

1 cannot cease to follow you, as they say 
The seal does music ; who desire you more 
Than growing boys their manhood ; dying lips, 
With many thousand matters left to do. 

The breath of life ; O more than poor men wealth, 

Than sick men health — yours, yours, not mine — but half ' 

Without you ; with you, whole ; and of those halves 

You worthiest ; and howe'er you block and bar 

Your heart with system out from mine, I hold 

That it becomes no man to nurse despair, 

But in the teeth of clench'd antagonisms 

To follow up the worthiest till he die : 

Yet that I came not all unauthorized 

Behold your father's letter." 

On one knee 
Kneeling, I gave it, which she caught, and dash'd 
Unopen'd at her feet : a tide of fierce 
Invective seem'd to wait behind her lips, 
As waits a river level with the dam 
Ready to burst and flood tlie world with foam : 
And so she would have spoken, but there rose 
A hubbub in the court of half the maids 



26G* THE princess: 

Gatlier'd together: fi^om the illumined hall 

Long lanes of splendor slanted o'er a press 

Of snowy shoulders, thick as herded ewes, 

And rainbow robes, and gems and gemlike eyes, 

And gold and golden heads ; they to and fro 

Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some red, some pale, 

All open-mouth'd, all gazing to the light, 

Some crying there was an army in the land, 

And some that men were in the very walls, 

And some they cared not ; till a clamor grew 

As of a new-world Babel, woman-built. 

And worse-confounded : high above them stood 

The placid marble Muses, looking peace. 

Not peace she look'd, the Head : but rising up 
Robed in the long night of her deep hair, so 
To the open Avindow moved, remaining there 
Fixt hke a beacon-tower above the waves 
Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling eye 
Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the light 
Dash themselves dead. She stretch'd her arms and call'd 
Across the tumult and the tmnult fell. 

" What fear ye brawlere ? am not I your Head ? 
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks : / dare 
All these male thunderbolts : Avhat is it ye fear ? 
Peace ! there are those to avenge us and they come : 
If not, — myself were like enough, O girls, 
To unfurl the maiden banner of our rights, 
And clad in iron burst the ranks of war, 
Or, falling, protomartyr of our cause. 
Die : yet I blame you not so much for fear ; 
Six thousand years of fear have made you that 
From which I would redeem you : but for those 
That stir this hubbub — you and you — I know 
Your faces there in the crowd — to-morrow morn 
We hold a great convention : then shall they 
That love their voices more than duty, learn 
With whom they deal, dismiss'd in shame to live 
No wiser than their mothers, household stuff, 
Live chattels, mincers of each other's fame, 
Full of weak poison, turnspits for the clown. 
The drunkard's football, laughing-stocks of Time, 
Whose brains are in their hands and in their heels, 
But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to thrum, 



A MEDLEY. ^7 

To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and to scour, 
Forever slaves at home and fools abroad." 

She, endino-, waved her hands : thereat the crowd 
Muttering, dissolved : then with a smile, that look'd 
A stroke of .cruel sunshine on the cliff, 
"When all the glens are drown'd in azure gloom 
Of thunder-shower, she floated to us, and said : 

" You have done well and like a gentleman, 
And like a prince : you have our thanks for all : 
And you look well too in your woman's dress : 
Well have you done and like a gentleman. 
You saved our life : Ave owe you bitter thanks : 
Better have died and spilt our bones in the flood — 
Then men had said — but now — What hinders me 
To take such bloody vengeance on you both ? — 
Yet since our father — AVasps in our good hive, 
You would-be quenchers of the light to be. 
Barbarians, grosser than your native bears — 

Avould I had his sceptre for one hour ! 

You that have dared to break our bound, and gull'd 
Our servants, wrong'd and lied and thwarted us — 
/ wed with thee ! / bound by precontract 
Your bride, your bondslave ! not tho' all the gold 
That veins the world were pack'd to make your crown, 
And every spoken tongue should lord you. Sir, 
Your falsehood and yourself are hateful to us : 

1 trample on your offers and on you : 
Begone : we Avill not look upon you more. 
Here, pash them out at gates." 

In Avrath she spake. 
Then those eight mighty daughters of the plough 
Bent their broad faces toward us and address'd 
Their motion : twice I sought to plead my cause, 
But on my shoulder hung their heavy hands. 
The weight of destiny : so from her face 
They push'd us, down the steps, and thro' the court, 
And with grim laughter thrust us out at gates. 

We cross'd the street and gain'd a petty mound 
Beyond it, whence we saw the lights and heard 
The voices murmuring. While I llsten'd, came 
On a sudden the weird seizure and the doubt: 
I seem'd to move among a world of ghosts ; 



268 THE princess: 

The Princess with her monstrous woman-guard, 
The jest and earnest working side by side, 
The cataract and the tumult and the kings 
Were shadows ; and the long fantastic night 
With all its doings had and had not been, 
And all things were and were not. 

This went by 
As strangely as it came, and on my spirits 
Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy ; 
Not long ; I shook it off; for spite of doubts 
And sudden ghostly shadowings I was one 
To Avhom the touch of all mischance but came 
As night to him that sitting on a hill 
Sees the midsummer, midnight, Norway sun 
Set into sunrise ; then we moved away. 



Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, 

That beat to battle where he stands; 
Thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands: 
A moment, while the trumpets blow. 

He sees his brood about thy knee; 
The next, like fire he meets the foe. 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 



So Lilia sang : we thought her half-]30ssess'd, 
She struck such warbling fury thro' the words ; 
And, after, feigning pique at what she call'd 
The raillery, or grotesque, or false sublime — 
Like one that wishes at a dance to change 
The music — clapt her hands and cried for war. 
Or some grand fioht to kill and make an end : 
And he that next inherited the tale 
Half turning to the broken statue, said, 
" Sir Ralph has got your colors : if I prove 
Your knight, and fight your battle, what for me ? 
It chanced, her empty glove upon the tomb 
Lay by her like a model of her hand. 
She took it and she flung it. " Fight," she said, 
"And make us all we would be, great and good." 
He knightlike in his cap instead of casque, 
A cap of Tyrol borrow'd from the hall. 
Arranged the favor, and assumed the Prince. 



A MEDLEY. 269 



V. 

!No"\v, scarce three paces measured from the mound, 

We stumbled on a stationary voice. 

And '' Stand, avIio goes ? " " Two from the palace," I. 

" The second two : they wait," he said, " pass on ; 

His Highness wakes : " and one, that clash'd in arms, 

By glimmering lanes and walls of canvas, led 

Thi-eading the soldier-city, till we heard 

The drowsy folds of om- great ensign shake 

From blazon'd lions o'er the imperial tent 

Whispers of Avar. 

Entering, the sudden light 
Dazed me half-blind : I stood and seem'd to hear. 
As in a poplar groAC when a light wind w^akes 
A lisping of the in numerous leaf and dies, 
Each hissing in his neighbor's ear ; and then 
A strangled titter, out of which there brake 
On all sides, clamoring etiquette to death, 
Unmeasured mirth ; while now the two old kings 
Begaa to wag their baldness up and down, 
The fresh young captains flash'd their glittering teeth, 
The huge bush-bearded Barons heaved and blew". 
And slain with laughter roll'd the gilded Squire. 

At length my Sire, his rough cheek wet with tears, 
Panted from weary sides, " King, you are free ! 
AVe did but keep you surety for our son. 
If this be he, — or a draggled mawkin, thou, 
That tends her bristled gruntei'S in the sludge : " 
For I was drench'd with ooze, and torn with briers, 
More crumpled than a poppy from the sheath. 
And all one rag, disprinced from head to heel. 
Then some one sent beneath his vaulted palm 
A whisper'd jest to some one near him, " Look, 
He has been among his shadows." " Satan take 
The old women and their shadows ! (tluis the King 
Roar'd) make youi^elf a man to fight Avith men. 
Go : Cyril told us all." 

As boys that slink 
From ferule and the trespas-chiding eye, 
Away we stole, and transient in a trice 
From wliat was left of faded woman-slough 
To sheathing splendors and tlie golden scale 
Of harness, issued in the sun, that now 



270 THE PRINCESS : 

Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the Earth, 
And hit the Northern hills. Here Cyril met ns, 
A little shy at first, but by and by 
We twain, with mutual pardon ask'd and given 
For stroke and song, resolder'd peace, whereon 
Follow'd his tale. Amazed he fled away 
Thro' the dai'k land, and later in the night 
Had come on Psyche weeping : " then we fell 
Into your father's hand, and there she lies, 
But will not speak, nor stir." 

He show'd a tent 
A stone-shot off: we enter'd in, and there 
Among piled arms and rough accoutrements, 
Pitiful sight, wrapped in a soldier's cloak, 
Like some sweet sculpture draped from head to foot, 
And push'd by rude hands from its pedestal. 
All her fair length upon the ground she lay : 
And at her head a follower of the camp, 
A charr'd and wrinkled piece of womanhood, 
Sat watching like a watcher by the dead. 

Then Florian knelt, and " Come," he whisper'd to her. 
" Lift up your head, sweet sister : lie not thus. 
What have you done but right ? you could not slay 
Me, nor your prince : look up : be comforted : 
Sweet is it to have done the thing one ought, 
When fall'n in darker ways." And likewise I: 
" Be comforted : have I not lost her too. 
In whose least act abides the nameless charm 
That none has else for me ? " She heard, she moved, 
She moan'd, a folded voice ; and up she sat. 
And raised the cloak from iDrows as pale and smooth 
As those that mourn lialf-shrouded over death 
In deathless marble. ^ Her," she said, " my friend — 
Parted from her — betray'd her cause and mine — 
Where shall I breathe ? why kept ye not your faith ? 
O base and bad ! what comfort ? none for me ! " 
To whom remorseful Cyril, " Yet I pray 
Take comfort : live, dear lady, for your child ! " 
At which she lifted up her voice and cried. 

"Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah my child, 
My one sweet child, whom I shall see no more ! 
For now will cruel Ida keep her back ; 
And either she will die from want of care, 



A MEDLEY. 271 

Or sicken with ill-usage, when they say 

The cliild is hers — for every little fault, 

The child is hei-s ; and they will beat my girl 

Remembering her mother : O my flower ! 

Or they will take her, they will make her hard. 

And she will pass me by in after-life 

With some cold reverence worse than Avere she dead. 

HI mother that I was to leave her there, 

To lag behind, scared by the cry they made, 

The horror of the shame among them all : 

But I will go and sit beside the doors. 

And make a wild petition night and day, 

Until they hate to hear me like a wind 

Wailing forever, till they open to me. 

And lay my little blossom at my feet. 

My babe, my sweet Aglaia, my one child : 

And I Avill take her up and go my way, 

And satisfy my soul Avith kissing her : 

Ah ! what might that man not deserve of me, 

Wlio gave me back my child ? " " Be comforted," 

Said Cyril, " you shall have it : " but again 

She veil'd her brows, and prone she sank, and so 

Like tender things that being caught feign death. 

Spoke not, nor stirr'd. 

By this a murmur ran 
Thro' all the camp and inward raced the scouts 
AVitli rumor of Prince Arac hard at hand. 
We left her by the Avoman, and Avithout 
Found the gray kings at parle : and, " Look, you," cried 
My father, " that our compact be fulfill'd : 
You have spoilt this child ; she laughs at you and man : 
She Avrongs herself, her sex, and me, and him : 
But red-faced Avar has rods of steel and fire ; 
She yields, or Avar." 

Then Gama turn'd to me : 
" We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy time 
With our strange girl : and yet they say that still 
You love her. Give* us, then, your mind at large : 
How say you, Avar or not V " 

" Not Avar, if possible, 
O king," I said, " lest from the abuse of Avar, 
The desecrated shrine, the trampled year. 
The smouldering homestead, and the household flower 
Torn from the lintel — all the common Avrong — 
A smoke go up thro' Avliich I loom to her 



272 THE PRINCESS : 

Three times a monster : now she lightens scorn 

At him that mars her plan, but then would hate 

(And every voice she talk'd with ratify it, 

And every face she look'd on justify it) 

The general foe. More soluble is this knot, 

By gentleness than war. I want her love. 

What were I nigher this altho' we dash'd 

Your cities into shards with catapults. 

She would not love ; — or brought her chain'd, a slave, 

The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord. 

Not ever would she love ; but brooding turn 

The book of scorn, till all my little chance 

Were caught within the record of her wrongs. 

And crush'd to death : and rather. Sire, than this 

I would the old God of war himself were dead, 

Forgotten, rusting on his iron hills, 

Rotting on some wild shore with ribs of wreck, 

Or like an old-world mammoth bulk'd in ice. 

Not to be molten out." 

And roughly spake 
My father, " Tut, you know them not, the girls. 
Boy, when I hear you prate I almost think 
That idiot-legend credible. Look you. Sir ! 
Man is the hunter ; woman is his game : 
The sleek and shining creatures of the chase, 
We hunt them for the beauty of their skins ; 
They love us for it, and we ride them down. 
W^heedling and siding with them ! Out ! for shame ! 
Boy, there 's no rose that 's half so dear to them 
As he that does the thing they dare not do, 
Breathing and sounding beauteous battle, comes 
With the air of the trumpet round him, and leaps in 
Among the women, snares them by the score, 
Flatter'd and fluster'd, wins, tho' dash'd with death 
He reddens what he kisses : thus I won 
Your mother, a good mother, a good wife. 
Worth winning ; but this firebrand — gentleness 
To such as her ! if Cyril spake her true, 
To catch a dragon in a cherry-net. 
To trip a tigress with a gossamer, 
Were wisdom to it." 

" Yea, but Sire," I cried, 
" Wild natures need wise curbs. The soldier ? No : 
What dares not Ida do that she should prize 
The soldier? I beheld her, when she rose 



A MEDLEY. 

The yesterniglit, and storming in extremes 

Stood for her cause, and flung defiance down 

Gagelike to man, and had not shunn'd the death, 

No, not the soldier's : yet I hold her, king, 

True woman : but you clash them all in one, 

That have as many diiferences as we. 

The violet varies from the lily as far 

As oak from elm : one loves the soldier, one 

The silken priest of peace, one this, one that, 

And some unworthily ; their sinless faith, 

A maiden moon that sparkles on a sty. 

Glorifying clown and satyr ; whence they need 

More breadth of culture : is not Ida right ? 

They Avorth it ? truer to the law within ? 

Severer in the logic of a life ? 

Twice as magnetic to sweet influences 

Of earth and heaven ? and she of whom you speak. 

My mother, looks as whole as some serene 

Creation minted in the golden moods 

Of sovereign ai"tists ; not a thought, a touch. 

But pure as lines of green that streak the white 

Of the first snowdrop's inner leaves ; I say, 

Not like the piebald miscellany, man. 

Bursts of great heart and slips in sensual mire. 

But whole and one : and take them all-in-all, 

Were we ourselves but half as good, as kind, 

As truthful, much that Ida claims as right 

Had ne'er been mooted, but as frankly theirs 

As dues of Nature. To our point : not war : 

Lest I lose all." 

" Nay, nay, you spake but sense," 
Said Gama. " We remember love ourself 
In our sweet youth ; we did not rate him then 
This red-hot iron to be shaped with blows. 
You talk almost like Ida : ^he can talk ; 
And there is something in it as you say : 
But you talk kindlier : we esteem you for it. 
He seems a gracious and a gallant Prince, 
I would he had our daughter : for the rest. 
Our own detention, why, the causes weigh'd. 
Fatherly fears — you used us courteously — 
We would do much to gratify your Prince — 
We pardon it ; and for your ingress here 
Upon the skirt and fringe of our fair land, 
You did but come as goblins in the night, 
18 



274 THE PRINCESS : 

Nor in the fuiTOW broke tlie ploughman's head, 
Nor burnt the grange, nor buss'd the milking-maid, 
Nor robb'd the farmer of his bowl of cream : 
But let vour Prince (our royal word upon it. 
He comes back safe) ride with us to our lines, 
And speak w4th Ai-ac : Arac's word is thrice 
As ours with Ida : something may be done — 
. I know not Avhat — and ours shall see us friends. 
You, likewise, our late guests, if so you will, 
Follow us : who knows ? we four may build some plan 
Foursquare to opiDOsitlon." 

Here he reach'd 
White hands of farewell to my sire, who growl'd 
An answer which, half-muffled in his beard, 
Let so much out as gave us leave to go. 

Then rode we wdth the old king across the lawns 
Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings of Spring- 
In every bole, a song on e^ery spray 
Of birds that piped their Valentines, and woke 
Desire in me to infuse my tale of love 
In the old king's ears, who promised help, and oozed 
All o'er with honey'd answer as we rode ; 
And blossom-fragrant slipt the heavy dews 
Gather'd by night and peace, with each light air 
On our mail'd heads : but other thoughts than Peace 
Burnt in us, when Ave saw the embattled squares, 
And squadrons of the Prince, trampling the flowers 
With clamor; for among them rose a cry 
As if to greet the king ; they made a halt ; 
The horses yell'd ; they clash'd their arms ; the drum 
Beat ; merrily blowing shfill'd the martial fife ; 
And in the blast and bray of the long horn 
And serpent-throated bugle, undulated 
The banner : anon to meet us lightly pranced 
Three captains out ; nor ever had I seen 
Such thews of men : the midmost and the highest 
Was Arac : all about his motion clung 
The shadow of his sister, as the beam 
Of the East, that play'd upon them, made them glance 
Like those three stars of the airy Giant's zone. 
That glitter burnish'd by the frosty dark ; 
And as the fiery Sirius alters hue. 
And bickers into red and emerald, shone 
Their morions, Avash'd with morning, as they came. 



A MEDLEY. 275 

And I that prated peace, Avlien first I heaj-d 
War-music, felt the blind wildbeast of force. 
Whose home is in the sinews of a man, 
Stir in me as to strike : then took the king 
His three broad sons : with now a Avandering hand 
And now a pointed iinger, told them all : 
A common light of smiles at our disguise 
Broke from theii- lips, and, ere the Avindy jest 
Had labor'd doAvn Avithin his ample lungs, 
The genial giant, Arac, roll'd himself 
Thrice in the saddle, then burst out in Avords. 

" Our land inA^aded, 'sdeath ! and he himself 
Your captiAC, yet my father Avills not Avar : 
And, 'sdeath ! myself, Avhat care I, Avar or no ? 
But then this question of your troth remains : 
And there 's a doAvnrioht honest meanino- in her ; 
She flies too high, she flies too high ! and yet 
She ask'd but space and fair play for her scheme ; 
She prest and prest it on me — I myself. 
What knoAv I of these things ? but, life and soul ! 
I thouo-ht her half rioht talliino- of her Avron<>s ; 
1 say she fiies too high, 'sdeath ! Avhat of that ? 
I take her for the flower of Avomankind, 
And so I often told her, right or Avrong, 
And, Prince, siie can be sweet to those she Ioa'cs, 
And, right or Avrong, I care not : this is all, 
I stand upon her side : she made me sAvear it — 
'Sdeath — and Avith solemn rites by candle-light — 
SAvear by St. something — I forget her name — 
Her that talk'd doAvn the fifty Avisest men ; 
She Avas a princess too ; and so I swore. 
Come, this is all ; she Avill not : Avaive your claim : 
If not, the fbughten field, Avhat else, at once 
Decides it ; 'sdeath ! against my father's Avill." 

I lagg'd in answer, loath to render up 
My precontract, and loath by brainless .war 
To cleave the rift of difference deeper yet ; 
Till one of those tAvo brothers, half aside 
And fingering at the hair about his lip, 
To prick us on to combat, " Like to like ! 
The Avoraan's garment hid the Avoman's heart." 
A taunt that clench'd his purpose like a bloAv ! 
For fiery-short Avas Cyril's counter-scoff, 



276 THE PRINCESS : 

And sharp I answer'd, touch'd upon the point 
"Where idle boys are cowards to their shame, 
" Decide it here : why not ? we are three to three." 

Then spake the third, " But three to three ? no more ? 
No more, and in our noble sister's cause ? 
More, more, for honor : every captain waits 
Hungry for honor, angry for his king. 
More, more, some fifty on a side, that each 
May breathe himself, and quick ! by overthrow 
Of these or those, the question settled die." 

" Yea," answer'd I, " for this wild wreath of air, 
This flake of rainbow flying on the highest 
Foam of men's deeds — this honor, if ye wilL 
It needs must be for honor if at all : 
Since, wdiat decision ? if we fail, we fail. 
And if we win, we fail : she would not keep 
Her compact." " 'Sdeath 1 but we will send to her," 
Said Arac, " worthy reasons why she should 
Bide by this issue : let our missive thro', 
And you shall have her answer by the word." 

" Boys ! " shriek'd the old king, but vainlier than a hen 
To her false daughters in the pool ; for none 
Regarded ; neither seem'd there more to say : 
Back rode we to my father's camp, and found 
He thrice had sent a herald to the gates, 
To learn if Ida yet would cede our claim. 
Or by denial flush her babbling wells 
With her own people's life : three times he went : 
The first, he blew and blew, but none appear'd : 
He batter'd at the doors ; none came : the next, 
An awfiil voice within had warn'd him thence : 
The third, and those eight daughters of the plough 
Came sallying thro' the gates, and caught his hair, 
And so belabor'd him on rib and cheek 
They made him wild: not less one glance he caught 
Thro' open doors of Ida station'd there 
Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, firm 
Tho' compass'd by two armies and the noise 
Of arms ; and standing like a stately Pine 
Set in a cataract on an island-crag, 
When storm is on the heights, and right and left 
Suck'd from the dark heart of the lono; hills roll 



A MEDLEY. 277 

The torrente, dash'd to the vale : and yet her will 
Bred will in me to overcome it or fall. 

But uhen I told the king that I was pledged 
To fight in tourney for my bride, he elash'd 
His iron palms together with a cry ; 
Himself would tilt it out among the lads : 
But overborne by all his bearded lords 
With reasons drawn from age and state, perforce 
He yielded, wroth and red, with fierce demur : 
And many a bold knight started up in heat, 
And SAvare to combat for my claim till death. 

All on this side the palace ran the field 
Flat to the garden-wall : and likewise here, 
Above the garden's glowing blossom-belts, 
A column'd entry shone and marble stairs. 
And great bronze valves, emboss'd Avith Tomyris 
And what she did to Cyrus after fight, 
But now fast barr'd : so here ujDon the flat 
All that long morn the lists were hammer'd up, 
And all that morn the heralds to and fro, 
With message and defiance, went and came ; 
Last, Ida's answer, in a royal hand, 
But shaken here and there, and rolling words 
Oration-hke. I kiss'd it and I read. 

" O brother, you have known the pangs we felt, 
What heats of indignation Avhen we heard 
Of those that iron-cramp'cl their women's feet ; 
Of lands in which at the altar the poor bride 
Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift a scourge ; 
Of living hearts that crack within the fire 
Where smoulder their dead despots ; and of those, — 
Mothers, — that, all prophetic pity, fling 
Their pretty maids in the running flood, and swoops 
The vulture, beak and talon, at the heart 
Made for all noble motion : and I saw 
That equal baseness lived in sleeker times 
With smoother men : the old leaven leaven'd all : 
Millions of throats would bawl for civil rights, 
Ko woman named : therefore I set my face 
Against all men, and lived but for mine own. 
Far off from men I built a fold for them : 
I stored it full of rich memorial : 



278 THE princess: 

I fenced it round with gallant institutes, 

And biting laws to scare the beasts of prey, 

And prosper'd; till a rout of saucy boys 

BraJce on us at our books, and marr'd our peace, 

Mask'd like our maids, blustering I know not what 

Of insolence and love, some pretext held 

Of baby-ti'oth, invalid, since my Avill 

Seal'd not the bond — the striijlings ! — for their sport ! - 

I tamed my leopards : shall I not tame these ? 

Or you ? or I ? for since you think me touch'd 

In honor — what ? I would not aught of false — 

Is not our cause pure ? and whereas I know 

Your prowess, Arac, and what mother's blood 

You draw from, fight; you failing, I abide 

What end soever : fail you will not. Still 

Take not his life : he risk'ct it for my own ; 

His mother lives : yet whatsoe'er you do. 

Fight and fight well ; strike and strike home. O dear 

Brothers, the woman's Angel guards you, you 

The sole men to be mingled with our cause. 

The sole men we shall prize in the after-time, 

Your yery armor hallow'd, and your statues 

Eear'd, sung to, when, this gad-fly brush'd aside, 

We plant a solid foot into the Time, 

And mould a generation strong to move 

With claim on claim from right to right, till she 

Whose name is yoked with children's, know herself; 

And Knowledge in our own land make her free, 

And, ever following those two crowned twins. 

Commerce and Conquest, shower the fiery grain 

Of freedom broadcast over all that orbs 

Between the Northern and the Southern morn." 

Then came a postscript dash'd across the rest. 
" See that there be no traitors in your camp : 
We seem a nest of traitors — none to trust 
Since our arms fail'd — this Egypt-plague of men ! 
Almost our maids were better at their homes, 
Than thus man-girdled here : indeed I think 
Our chiefest comfort is the little child 
Of one unworthy mother ; which she left : 
She shall not have it back : the child shall grow 
To prize the authentic mother of her mind. 
I took it for an hour in mine own bed 
This morning : there the tender orphan-hands 



A MEDLEY. 279 

Felt at my heart, and seem'd to charm from thence 
The wrath I nursed against the world : farewell." 

I ceased ; he said : " Stubborn, but she may sit 
Upon a king's right hand in thunder-storms, 
And breed up warriors ! See now, tho' yourself 
Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to sloughs 
That swallow common sense, the spindling king, 
This Gama, swamp'd in lazy tolerance. 
When the man wants weight, the woman takes it up, 
And topples down the scales ; but this is fixt 
As are the roots of earth and base of all ; 
Man for the field and woman for the hearth : 
Man for the sword and for the needle she : 
Man with tlie head and woman with the heart : 
Man to connnand and woman to obey ; 
All else confusion. Look you ! the gray mare 
Is ill to live with, when her whinny shrills 
From tile to scullery, and her small goodman 
Shrinks in his arm-chair while the fires of Hell 
Mix with his hearth : but you — she 's yet a colt — 
Take, break her : strongly groom'd and straitly curb'd 
She might not rank with those detestable 
That let the bantling scald at home, and brawl 
Their rights or wrongs like potherbs in the street. 
They say she 's comely ; there 's the fairer cliance : 
I like her none the less for rating at her ! 
Besides, the woman wed is not as we, 
But suffers change of fame. A lusty brace 
Of twins may weed her of her folly. Boy, 
The bearing and the training of a child 
Is woman's wisdom." 

Thus the hard old king : 
I took my leave, for it Avas nearly noon : 
I pored upon her letter which I held. 
And on the little clause, " Take not his life : " 
I mused on that wild morning in the woods, 
And on the " Follow, follow, thou shalt win : " 
I thought on all the Avrathful king had said, 
And how the strange betrothment was to end : 
Then I remember'd that burnt sorcerer's curse 
That one should fight wMth shadows and should fall ; 
And like a flash the weird affection came : 
King, camp, and college turn'd to hollow shows ; 
I seem'd to move in old m'emorial tilts, 



280 THE princess: 

And doing battle with forgotten ghosts, 

To dream myself the shadow of a dream : 

And ere I woke it was the point of noon, 

The lists were ready. Empanoplied and plumed 

We enter'd in, and waited, fifty there 

Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet blared 

At the barrier like a wild horn in a land 

Of echoes, and a moment, and once more 

The trumpet, and again : at which the storm 

Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of spears 

And riders front to front, until they closed 

In conflict with the crash of shivering points. 

And thunder. Yet it seem'd a dream, I dream'd 

Of fighting. On his haunches rose the steed. 

And into fiery splinters leapt the lance, 

And out of stricken helmets sprang the fire. 

Part sat like rocks : part reel'd but kept their seats : 

Part roll'd on the earth and rose again and drew : 

Part stumbled mixt with floundering horses. Down 

From those two bulks at Arac's side, and down 

From Arac's arm, as from a giant's flail. 

The large blows rain'd, as here and everywhere 

He rode the mellay, lord of the ringing lists. 

And all the plain, — brand, mace, and shaft, and shield - 

Shock'd, like an iron-clanging anvil bang'd 

With hammers ; till I thought, can this be he 

From Gama's dwarfish loins ? if this be so, 

The mother makes us most — and in my dream 

I glanced aside, and saw the palace-front 

Alive with fluttering scarfs and ladies' eyes, 

And highest, among the statues, statuelike, 

Between a cymbal'd Miriam and a Jael, 

With Psyche's babe, was Ida watching us, 

A single band of gold about her hair. 

Like a Saint's glory up in heaven : but she 

No saint — inexorable — no tenderness — 

Too hard, too cruel : yet she sees me fight. 

Yea, let her see me fall ! with that I drave 

Among the thickest and bore down a Prince, 

And Cyril, one. Yea, let me make my dream 

All that I would. But that large-moulded man, 

His visage all agrin as at a wake. 

Made at me thro' the press, and, staggering back 

With stroke on stroke the horse and horseman, came 

As comes a pillar of electric" cloud, 



A MEDLEY. 281 

Flaying the roofs and sucking up the drains, 

And shadowing down the ehampain till it strikes 

On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and cracks, and splits, 

And twists the grain with such a roar that Earth 

Keels, and the herdsmen cry ; for everything 

Gave way before him : only Florian, he 

That loved me closer than his own right eye. 

Thrust in between ; but Arac rode him down : 

And Cyril seeing it, push'd against the Prince, 

With Psyche's color round his helmet, tough, 

Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at arms ; 

But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that smote 

And threw him : last I spurr'd ; I felt my veins 

Stretch with fierce heat; a moment hand to hand, 

And sword to sword, and horse to horse we hung, 

Till I struck out and shouted ; the blade glanced ; 

I did but shear a feather, and dream and truth 

Flow'd from m*^. ; darkness closed me ; and I fell. 



Home they brought her warrior dead; 

She nor swoou'd, nor utter'd cry: 
All her maidens, watching, said, 

*' She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Call'd him worthy to be loved, 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her placp 
Lightly to the wan-ior stept, 

Took the face-cloth from the face ; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Eose a nurse of ninety years. 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears - 
" Sweet my child, I live for thee." 



VI. 

My dream had never died or lived again. 
As in some mystic middle state I lay ; 
Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard : 
Tho', if I saw not, yet they told me all 
So often that I speak as having seen. 



282 THE PRINCESS : 

For so It seem'd, or so they said to me, 
That all things grew more tragic and more strange ; 
That when our side was vanquish'd and my cause 
Forever lost, there went up a great cry, 
The Prince is slain. My father heard and ran 
In on the lists, and there unlaced my casque 
And grovell'd on my body, and after him 
Came Psyche, sorrowing for Agla'ia. 

But high upon the palace Ida stood 
With Psyche's babe in arm : there on the roofs 
Like that great dame of Lapidoth she sang : 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : the seed, 
The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark. 
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk 
Of spanless girth, tliat lays on every side 
A thousand arms and rushes to the Sun. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they came ; 
The leaves were wet with women's tears : they heard 
A noise of songs they would not understand : 
They mark'd it with the red cross to the fall. 
And would have strown it, and are faU'n themselves. 

"Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they came, 
The woodmen with their axes : lo the tree ! 
But we will make it fagots for the hearth. 
And shape it plank and beam for roof and floor. 
And boats and bridges for the use of men. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they struck ; 
With their own blows they hurt themselves, nor knew 
There dwelt an iron nature in the grain : 
The glittering axe was broken in their arms. 
Their arms were shatter'd to the shoulder-blade. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, but this shall grow 
A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth 
Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power ; and roU'd 
With music in the growing breeze of Time, 
The tops shall strike from star to star, the fangs 
Shall move the stony bases of the world. 

"And now, O maids, behold our sanctuary 



A MEDLKY. 283 

Is violate, our laws broken : fear we not 

To break them more in their behoof, whose arms 

Champion'd our cause and Avon it Avith a day 

Blanch'd in our annals, and perpetual feast, 

When dames and heroines of the golden year 

Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of Spring, 

To rain an April of ovation round 

Their statues, borne aloft, the three : but come, 

AYe will be liberal, since our rights are won. 

Let them not lie in the tents with coarse mankind, 

111 nurses ; but descend, and proffer these 

The brethren of our blood and cause, that there 

Lie bruised and maim'd, the tender ministries 

Of female hands and hospitality." 

She spoke, and with the babe }'et in her arms. 
Descending, bm^t the great bronze valves, and led 
A hundred maids in train across the Park. 
Some cowl'd, and some bare-headed, on they came, 
Their feet in floAvers, her loveliest : by them Avent 
The enamor'd air sighing, and on their curls 
From the high tree the blossom Avavering fell, 
And over them the tremulous isles of light 
Slided, they moving under shade : but Blanche 
At distance folloAv'd ; so they came : anon 
Thro' open field into the lists they Avound 
Timorously ; and as the leader of the herd 
That holds a stately fretAvork to the Sun, 
And folloAv'd up by a hundred airy does, 
Steps Avitli a tender foot, light as on air, 
The lovely, lordly creature floated on 
To Avhere her Avounded brethren lay ; there stay'd ; 
Knelt on one knee, — the child on one, — and prest 
Their hands, and call'd them dear deliverers, 
And happy Avarrioi*s, and immortal names, 
And said, " You shall not lie in the tents, but here, 
And nui-sed by those for Avhom you fought, and served 
With female hands and hospitality." 

• Then, Avhether moved by this, or Avas it chance. 
She past my Avay. Up started from my side 
The old lion, glaring Avith his Avhelpless eye. 
Silent ; but Avhen she saAv me lying stark, 
Dishelm'd and mute, and motionlessly pale. 
Cold ev'n to her, she sigh'd ; and Avhen she saAv 



284 



THE I'RIXCKS^ 



The haggard father's face and reverend beard 
Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the blood 
Of his own son, shudder'd, a twitch of pain 
Tortured her mouth, and o'er her forehead past 
A shadow, anil her hue changed, and she said : 
" He saved my life : my brother slew him for it. 
No more : at wdiich the king in bitter scorn 
Drew from my neck the painting and the tress 
And held them up : she saw them, and a day 
Rose from the distance on her memory, 




When the good Queen, her mother, shore the tress 
With kisses, ere the days of Lady Blanche : 



A MEDLEY. 285 

And then once more she look'd at my pale face : 

Till understanding all the foolish work 

Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all, 

Her iron will was broken in her mind ; 

Her noble heart was molten in her breast ; 

She bow'd, she set the child on the earth ; she laid 

A feeling finger on my brows, and, presently, 

" O Sire," she said, '' he lives : he is not dead : 

O let me have him with my brethren here 

In our own palace : we will tend on him 

Like one of these ; if so, by any means, 

To liohten this o-reat clog of thanks, that make 

Om' progress falter to the woman's goal." 

She said : but at the happy word " he lives," 
My father stoop'd, refather'd o'er my wounds. 
So those two foes above my fallen life. 
With brow to brow like night and evenins; mixt 
Their dark and gray, while Psyche ever stole 
A little nearer, till the babe that by us, 
Half-lapt in gloAving gauze and golden brede, 
Lay like a new-lall'n meteor on the grass, 
Uncared for, spied its mother, and began 
A blind and babbling laughter, and to dance 
Its body, and reach its fatling innocent arms 
And lazy lingering fingers. She the appeal 
Brook'd not, but clamoring out, "Mine — mine — not yours. 
It is not yours, but mine : give me the child," 
Ceased all on tremble : piteous was the cry : 
So stood the unhappy mother open-mouth'd. 
And turn'd each face her way : wan was her cheek 
With hollow watch, her blooming mantle torn. 
Red grief and mother's hunger in her eye. 
And down dead-heavy sank her curls, and half 
The sacred mother's bosom, panting, burst 
The laces toward her babe ; but she nor cared 
Nor knew it, clamoring on, till Ida heard, 
Look'd up, and rising slowly from me, stood 
Erect and silent, striking Avith her glance 
The mother, me, the child ; but he that lay 
Beside us, Cyril, batter'd as he Avas, 
Trail'd himself up on one knee : then he drew 
Her robe to meet his lips, and down she look'd 
At the arm'd man sideways, pitying, as it seem'd, 
Or self-involved ; but when she learnt his face, 



286 THE princess: 

Remembering his ill-omen'd song, arose 

Once more tlu-o' all her height, and o'er him grevv' 

Tall as a figure lengthen'd on the sand 

When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and he said : 

" O fair and strong and terrible ! Lioness 
That with your long locks play the Lion's mane ! 
But Love and Nature, these are two more terrible . 
And stronger. See, your foot is on our necks, 
We vanquish'd, you the Victor of your will. 
What would you more ? give her the child ! remain 
Orb'd in your isolation : he is dead, 
Or all as dead : henceforth we let you be : 
Win you the hearts of women ; and beware 
Lest, where you seek the common love of these, 
The common hate with the revolving wheel 
Should drag you down, and some great Nemesis 
Break from a darken'd future, crown'd with fire, 
And tread you out forever : but howsoe'er 
Fix'd in yourself, never in your own arms 
To hold your own, deny not hers to her. 
Give her the child ! O if, I say, you keep 
One pulse that beats true woman, if you loved 
The breast that fed or arm that dandled you, 
Or own one part of sense not flint to prayer, 
Give her the child ! or if you scorn to lay it. 
Yourself, in hands so lately claspt with yours, 
Or speak to her, your dearest, her one fault 
The tenderness, not yours, that could not kill. 
Give me it : / will give it her." 

He said : 
At first her eye with slow dilation roU'd 
Dry flame, she listening ; after sank and sank, 
And, into mournful twilight mellowing, dwelt 
Full on the child ; she took it : " Pretty bud ! 
Lily of the vale ! half-open'd bell of the woods ! 
Sole comfort of my dark hour, when a world 
Of traitorous friend and broken system made 
No purple in the distance, mystery. 
Pledge of a love not to be mine, farewell ; 
These men are hard upon us as of old, 
We two must part : and yet how fain was I 
To dream thy cause embraced in mine, to think 
I might be something to thee, when I felt 
Thy helpless warmth about my barren breast 



A MEDLEY. 287 

In the dead prime : but may tliy mother prove 
As true to thoe as false, false, fiilse to me ! 
And, if thou needs must bear the yoke, I wish it 
Gentle as freedom " — here she kiss'd it : then — 
"All good go Avith thee ! take it, Sir," and so 
Laid the soft babe in his hard-mailed hands, 
Who turn'd half-round to Psyche as she sprang 
To meet it, with an eye that swum in thanks ; 
Then felt it sound and whole from head to foot, 
And huo:o'd and never hugo'd it close enouoh 
And in her hunger mouth'd and mumbled it, 
And hid her bosom with it ; after that 
Put on more calm and added suppliantly ; 

" We two Avere friends : I go to mine own land 
Forever : find some other : as for me 
I scarce am fit for your great plans : yet speak to me, 
Say one soft word and let me part forgiven." 

But Ida spoke not, rapt upon the child. 
Then Arac. "Ida — 'sdeath ! you blame the man; 
You wrong youi-selves — the woman is so hard 
Upon the Avoman. Come, a grace to me ! 
I am your warrior : I and mine have fought 
Your battle : kiss her ; take her hand, she Aveeps : 
'Sdeath I I Avould sooner fight thrice o'er than see it." 

But Ida spoke not, gazing on the ground, 
And reddening in the furrows of his chin. 
And moved beyond his custom, Gama said : 

" I 've heard that there is iron in the blood, 
And I believe it. Not one Av^ord ? not one ? 
Whence drcAv you this steel temper ? not from me, 
Not from your mother now a saint Avith saints. 
She said you had a heart — I heard her say it — 
' Our Ida has a heart ' — just ere she died — 
' But see that some one Avith authority 
Be near her still,' and I — I sought for one — 
All people said she had authority — 
The Lady Blanche : much profit ! Not one Avord ; 
No ! tho' your father sues : see hoAv you stand 
Stiflf as Lot's Avife, and all the good knights maim'd, 
I trust that there is no one hurt to death. 
For your Avild Avhira : and Avas it then for this, 



288 THE PRINCESS : 

Was It for this we gave our palace up, 

Where we withdrew from summer heats and state, 

And had our wine and chess beneath the planes. 

And many a pleasant hour with her that 's gone, 

Ere you were born to vex us ? Is it kind ? 

Speak to her I say : is this not she of whom, 

When first she came, all flush'd you said to me 

Now had you got a friend of your own age. 

Now could you share your thought ; now should men see 

Two women faster welded in one love 

Than pairs of wedlock ; she you walk'd with, she 

You talk'd with, whole nights long, up in the tower, 

Of sine and arc, spheroid and azimuth, 

And right ascension, Heaven knows what ; and now ■ 

A word, but one, one little kindly word, 

Not one to spare her : out upon you, flint ! 

You love nor her, nor me, nor any ; nay. 

You shame your mother's judgment too. Not one ? 

You will not ? well — no heart have you, or such 

As fancies like the vermin in a nut 

Have fretted all to dust and bitterness." 

So said the small king moved beyond his wont. 

But Ida stood nor sj)oke, drain'd of her force 
By many a varying influence and so long. 
Down thro' her limbs a drooping languor wept : 
Her head a little bent ; and on her mouth 
A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded moon 
In a still water : then brake out my sire 
Lifting his grim head from my wounds. " you, 
Woman, whom we thought woman even now, 
And were half fool'd to let you tend our son, 
Because he might have wish'd it — but we see 
The accomplice of your madness unforgiven, 
And think that you might mix his draught with death, 
When your skies change again : the rougher haiKl 
Is safer : on to the tents : take up the Prince." 

He rose, and while each ear was prick'd to attend 
A tempest, tln-o' the cloud that dimm'd her broke 
A genial Avarmth and light once more, and shone 
Thro' glittering drops on her sad friend. 

" Come hither, 
O Psyche," she cried out, '' embrace me, come, 
Quick while I melt ; make reconcilement sure 



A MEDLEY. 289 

With one tliat cannot keep her mind an hour : 

Come to the hollow heart they slander so ! 

Kiss and be friends, like childi-en being cliid ! 

/ seem no more : 7 want forgiveness too : 

I should have had to do with none but maids, 

That have no links with men. All false but dear, 

Dear traitor, too much loved, why ? — why ? — Yet see, 

Before these kings we embrace you yet once more 

With all forgiveness, all oblivion. 

And trust, not love, you less. 

And now, O Sire, 
Grant me your son, to nurse, to wait upon him. 
Like mine own brother. For my debt to him. 
This nightmare weight of gratitude, I know it ; 
Taunt me no more : yourself and yours shall have 
Free adit ; we will scatter all our maids 
Till happier times, each to her proper hearth : 
What use to keep them here now ? grant my prayer. 
Help, father, brother, help ; speak to the king : 
Thaw this male nature to some touch of that 
Which kills me Avith myself, and drags me down 
From my fixt height to mob me up with all 
The soft and milky rabble of womankind, 
Poor weakling ev'n as they are." 

Passionate tears 
FoUow'd : the king replied not : Cyril said : 
" Your brother, Lady, — Florian, — ask for him 
Of your great head — for he is wounded too — 
That you may tend upon him with the prince." 
"Ay so," said Ida, with a bitter smile, 
" Our laws are broken : let him enter too." 
Then Violet, she that sang the mournful song, 
And had a cousin tumbled on the plain, 
Petition'd too for him. "Ay so," she said, 
" I stagger in the stream : I cannot keep 
My heart an eddy from the brawling hour : 
We break our laws Avith ease, but let it be." 
"Ay so ? " said Blanche : "Amazed am I to hear 
Your Highness : but your Highness breaks with ease 
The law your Highness did not make : 't was L 
I had been wedded wife, I knew mankind, 
And block'd them out ; but these men came to woo 
Your Highness — verily I think to win." 

So she, and tiu-n'd askance a wintry eye : 
19 



290 THE PRINCESS : 

But Ida witli a voice, that like a bell 

ToU'd by an earthquake in a trembling tower, 

Rang ruin, answer'd full of grief and scorn : 

" Fling our doors wide ! all, aU, not one, but all, 
Not only he, but by my mother's soul. 
Whatever man lies wounded, friend or foe. 
Shall enter, if he will. Let our girls flit. 
Till the storm die ! but had you stood by us, 
The roar that breaks the Pharos from his base 
Had left us rock. She fain would sting us too, 
But shall not. Pass, and mingle with your likes. 
We brook no further insult but are gone." 

She turn'd ; the very nape of her white neck 
Was rosed with indignation : but the Prince 
Her brother came ; the king her father charm'd 
Her wounded soul with words : nor did mine own 
Refuse her proffer, lastly gave his hand. 

Then us they lifted up, dead weights, and bare 
Straight to the doors : to them the doors gave way 
Groaning, and in the Yestal entry shriek'd 
The virgin marble under iron heels : 
And on they moved and gain'd the hall, and there 
Rested : but great the crush was, and each base. 
To left and right, of those taU columns drown'd 
In silken fluctuation and the swarm 
Of female whisperers : at the further end 
Was Ida by the throne, the two great cats 
Close by her, like supporters on a shield, 
Bow-back'd with fear : but in the centre stood 
The common men with rolling eyes ; amazed 
They glared upon the women, and aghast 
The women stared at these, all silent, save 
When armor clash'd or jingled, while the day, 
Descending, struck athwart the hall, and shot 
A flying splendor out of brass and steel. 
That o'er the statues leapt from head to head, 
Now fired an angry Pallas on the helm, 
Now set a wrathful Dian's moon on flame, 
And now and then an echo started up. 
And shuddering fled from room to room, and died 
Of fright in far apartments. 



A MEDLEY. 291 

Tlien the voice 
Of Ida sounded, issuing ordinance : 
And me they bore up the broad stairs, and thro' 
The long-hiid galleries past a hundred doors 
To one deep chamber shut from sound, and due 
To languid Hmbs and sickness ; left me in it ; 
And others otherwhere they laid ; and all 
That afternoon a sound arose of hoof 
And chariot, many a maiden passing home 
Till happier times ; but some were left of those 
Held sagest, and the great lords out and in. 
From those two hosts that lay beside the walls, 
Walk'd at their will, and everything was changed. 



Ask me no more : the moon may draAv the sea; 

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 

But too fond, when have I answer'd thee? 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more: what answer should I give? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
Yet, my friend, I will not have thee die ! 

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd: 
I strove against the stream and all in vain : 
Let the great river take me to the main : 

Xo more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; 
Ask me no more. 



VII. 

So was their sanctuary violated, 

So their fair college turn'd to hospital ; 

At first with all confusion : by and by 

Sweet order lived again with other laws : 

A kindlier influence reign'd ; and everywhere 

Low voices with the ministering hand 

Hung round the sick : the maidens came, they talk'd, 

They sang, they read : till she not fair, began 

To gather light, and she that was, became 

Her former beauty treble ; and to and fro 

With books, with flowers, with Angel oflices, 



292 THE PRINCESS : 

Like creatures native unto gracious act, 
And in their own clear element, they moved. 

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell, 
And hatred of her weakness, blent with shame. 
Old studies fail'd ; seldom she spoke ; but oft 
Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone for hours 
On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of men 
Darkening her female field : void was her use ; 
And she as one that climbs a peak to gaze 
O'er land and main, and sees a great black cloud 
Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of night, 
Blot out the slope of sea fi'om verge to shore, 
And suck the blinding* splendor from the sand, 
And quenching lake bv lake and tarn by tarn 
Expunge the world : . so fared she gazing there ; 
So blacken'd all her world in secret, blank 
And waste it seem'd and vain ; till down she came. 
And found fair peace once more among the sick. 

And twilight dawn'd ; and morn by morn the lark 
Shot up and shrill'd in flickering gyres, but I 
Lay silent in the muffled cage of life : 
And twilight gloom'd ; and broader-grown the bowers 
Drew the great night into themselves, and Pleaven, 
Star after star, arose and fell ; but I, 
Deeper than those weird doubts could reach me, lay 
Quite sunder'd from the moving Universe, 
Nor knew what eye was on me, nor the hand 
That nursed me, more than infants in their sleep. 

But Psyche tended Floriaii : with her oft, 
Melissa came ; for Blanche had gone, but left 
Her child among us, willing she should keep 
Court-favor : here and there the small bright head, 
A light of healing, glanced about the couch, 
Or thro' the parted silks the tender face 
Peep'd, shining in upon the wounded man 
A¥ith blush and smile, a medicine in themselves 
To wile the length from languorous houi^, and draw ' 
The sting from pain ; nor seem'd it strange that soon 
He rose up whole, and those fair charities 
Join'd at her side ; nor stranger seem'd that hearts 
So gentle, so employ'd, should close in love. 
Than when two dewdrops on the petal shake 



A MEDLEY. 293 

To the same sweet air. and tremble deeper down, 
And slip at once all-fragrant into one. 

Less prosperously the second suit obtain'd 
At first with Psvche. Not tho' Blanche had sworn 
That after that dark night among the fields, 
She needs must wed him for her own good name ; 
Not tho' he built upon the babe restored ; 
Nor tho' she liked him, yielded she, but fear'd 
To incense the Head once more; till on a day 
When Cyril pleaded, Ida came behind 
Seen but of Psyche : on her foot she hung 
A moment, and she heard, at which her face 
A little flush'd, and she past on-; but each 
Assumed from thence a half-consent involved 
In stillness, plighted troth, and were at peace. 

Nor only these : Love in the sacred halls 
Held carnival at Avill, and flying struck 
With shoAvers of random sweet on maid and man. 
Nor did her fither cease to press my claim, 
Nor did mine own now reconciled ; nor yet 
Did those twin brothers, risen again and whole ; 
Nor Arac, satiate with his victory. 

But I lay still, and Avith me oft she sat : 
Then came a change ; for sometimes I would catch 
Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it hard, 
And fling it like a riper oflT, and sln-iek 
" You are not Ida ; " clasp it once again. 
And call her Ida, tho' I knew her not. 
And call her sweet, as if in irony, 
And call her hard and cold Avhich seem'd a truth : 
And still she fear'd that I should lose my mind, 
And often she believed that I should die : 
Till out of long frustration of her care, 
And pensive tendance in the all-weary noons. 
And watches in the dead, the dark, when clocks 
Throblj'd thunder thro' the palace floors, or call'd 
On flying Time from all their silver tongues — 
And out of memories of her kindlier days. 
And sidelong glances at my father's grief, 
And at the happy lovers heart in heart — 
And out of hauntings of ray spoken love, 
And lonely listenings to my mutter'd dream. 



294 THE PRINCESS : 

And often feeling of the helpless hands, 
And wordless broodings on the wasted cheek — 
From all a closer interest flourlsh'd up, 
Tenderness touch by touch, and last, to these, 
Love, like an Alpine harebell hung with tears 
By some cold morning glacier ; frail at first 
And feeble, all unconscious of itself. 
But such as gather'd color day by day. 

Last I woke sane, but well-nigh close to death 
For weakness : it was evening : silent light 
Slept on the painted walls, wherein were wrought 
Two grand designs ; for on one side arose 
The women up in wild revolt, and storm'd 
At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, they cramm'd 
The forum, and half-crush'd among the rest 
A dwarf-like Cato cower'd. On the other side 
Hortensia spoke against the tax ; behind 
A train of dames : by. axe and eagle sat. 
With all their foreheads drawn in Roman scowls, 
And half the wolf's-milk curdled in their veins, 
The fierce triumvirs ; and before them paused 
Hortensia, pleading : angry was her face. 

I saw the forms : I knew not where I was : 
They did but look like hollow shows ; nor more 
Sweet Ida : palm to palm she sat : the dew 
Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her shape 
And rounder seem'd : I moved : I sigh'd : a touch 
Came round my wrist, and tears upon my hand : 
Then all for languor and self-pity ran 
Mine down my face, and with what life I had, 
And like a flower that cannot all unfold. 
So drench'd it is with tempest, to the sun, 
Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I on her 
Fixt my faint eyes, and utter'd whisperingly : 

" If you be, what I think you, some sweet dream, 
I would but ask you to fulfil yourself: 
But if you be that Ida whom I knew, 
I ask you nothing : only, if a dream, 
Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die to-night. 
Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die." 

I could no more, but lay like one in trance. 



A MEDLEY. 295 

That heai*s his burial talk'd of by his friends, 

And cannot speak, nor move, nor make one sign, 

But lies and dreads his doom. She turn'd ; she paused ; 

She stoop'd ; and out of languor leapt a cry ; 

Leapt fiery Passion from the brinks of death ; 

And I believed that in the living world 

My spirit closed with Ida's at the lips ; 

Till back I fell, and from mine arms she rose 

Glowing all over noble shame ; and all 

Her falser self slipt from her like a robe. 

And left her woman, lovelier in her mood 

Than in her mould that other, when she came 

From barren deeps to conquer all with love ; 

And down the streaming cr}stal dropt ; and she 

Far-fleeted by the pm-ple island-sides. 

Naked, a double light in air and wave, 

To meet her Graces, where they deck'd her out 

For worship Avithout end ; nor end of mine, 

Stateliest, for thee ! but mute she glided forth, 

Nor glanced behind her, and I sank and slept, 

Fill'd thro' and thro' with Love, a happy sleep. 

Deep in the night I woke : she, near me, held 
A volume of the Poets of her land : 
There to herself, all in low tones, she read. 

" Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the Avhite ; 
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk ; 
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font : 
The fire-fly Avakens : waken thou Avith me. 

NoAv droops the milk-Avhite peacock like a ghost, 
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. 

NoAv lies the Earth all Danae to the stars, 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 

NoAv slides the silent meteor on, and leaves 
A shining fuiTOw, as thy thoughts in me. 

NoAv folds the lily all her SAveetness up, 
And slips into the bosom of the lake : 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
Lito my bosom and be lost in me." 



296 THE PRINCESS : 

I heard her turn the page ; she found a small 
Sweet Idyl, and once more, as low, she read : 

" Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain heiglit : 
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang) 
In height and cold, the splendor of the hills ? 
But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease 
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, 
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire ; 
And come, for Love is of the valley, come, 
For Love is of the valley, come thou down 
And find him ; by the happy threshold, he, 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, 
Or red with spirted purple of the vats, 
Or foxlike in the vine ; nor cares to walk 
With Death and Morning on the silver horns, 
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, 
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, 
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors : 
But follow ; let the torrent dance thee down 
To find him in the valley ; let the wild 
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave 
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill 
Their thousand wreaths of dangling; water-smoke, 
That like a broken purpose waste in air : 
So waste not thou ; but come ; for all the vales 
Await thee ; azure pillars of the hearth 
Arise to thee ; the children call, and I 
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, 
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet ; 
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn. 
The moan of doves in immemorial elms, 
And murmuring of innumerable bees." 

So she low-toned ; while with shut eyes I lay 
Listening ; then look'd. Pale was the perfect face ; 
The bosom with long sighs labor'd ; and meek 
Seem'd the full lips, and mild the luminous eyes, 
And the voice trembled and the hand. She said 
Brokenly, that she knew it, she had fail'd 
In sweet humility ; had fail'd in all ; 
That all her labor was but as a block 
Left in the quarry ; but she still were loth, 
She still were loth to yield herself to one, 



A MEDLEY. 297 

That wholly scoru'd to help their equal rights 
Against the sons of men, and barbarous laws. 
She pray'd me not to judge their cause from her 
That wrong'd it, sought far less for truth than power 
In knowledge : something wild Avithin her breast, 
A greater than all knowledge, beat her down. 
And she had nursed me there fi'om week to week : 
Much had she learnt in little time. In part 
It was ill counsel had misled the girl 
To vex true heai-ts : yet was she but a girl — 
"Ah fool, and made myself a Queen of farce ! 
AVhen comes another such ? never, I think. 
Till the Sun drojD dead from the signs." 

Her voice 
Choked, and her forehead sank upon her hands, 
And her great heart thro' all the faultful Past 
Went sorrowing in a pause I dared not break ; 
Till notice of a change in the dark world 
Was lispt about the acacias, and a bird. 
That early woke to feed her little ones. 
Sent from a dewy breast a cry for light : 
She moved, and at her feet the volume fell. 

" Blame not thyself too much," I said, " nor blame 
Too much the sons of men and barbarous laws ; 
These were the rough ways of the world till now. 
Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know 
The woman's cause is man's : they rise or sink 
Together, dwarf 'd or godlike, bond or free : 
For she that out of Lethe scales with man 
The shining steps of Nature, shares with man 
His nights, his days, moves with him to one goal, 
Stays all the fair young planet in her hands — 
If she be small, sllght-natured, miserable. 
How shall men grow ? but work no more alone ! 
Our place is much : as far as in us lies 
We two will serve them both in aiding her — 
Will clear away the parasitic forms 
That seem to keep her up but drag her down — 
AVill leave her space to burgeon out of all 
Within her — let her make herself her own 
To give or keep, to live and learn and be 
All that not harms distinctive womanhood. 
For woman is not undevelopt man, 
But diverse : could we make her as the man, 



298 THE PRINCESS : 

. Sweet Love were slain : his dearest bond is this, 
Not like to like, but like in difference. 
Yet in the long years liker must they grow ; 
The man be more of woman, she of man ; 
He gain in sweetness and in moral height, 
Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world ; 
She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care, 
Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind ; 
Till at the last she set hereelf to man, 
Like perfect music unto noble words ; 
And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time, 
Sit side by side, full-summ'd in all their powers, 
Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, 
Self-reverent each and reverencing each, 
Distinct in individualities. 
But like each other ev'n as those who love. 
Then comes the statelier Eden back to men : 
Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste and calm : 
Then springs the crowning race of humankind. 
May these things be ! " 

Sighing she spoke, " I fear 
They will not." 

" Dear, but let us type them now 
In our own lives, and this proud watchword rest 
Of equal ; seeing either sex alone 
Is half itself, and in true marriage lies 
Nor equal, nor unequal : each fulfils 
Defect in each, and always thought in thought, 
Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grow, 
The single pure and perfect animal, 
The two-cell'd heart beating, with one full stroke, 
Life." 

And again sighing she spoke : "A dream 
That once was mine ! what woman taught you this ? " 

"Alone," I said, " from earlier than I know. 
Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the world, 
I loved the woman : he, that doth not, lives 
A drowning life, besotted in sweet self. 
Or pines in sad experience worse than death. 
Or keeps his wing'd affections dipt with crime : 
Yet was there one thro' whom I loved her, one 
Not learned, save in gracious household ways, 
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants, 
No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt 



A MEDLEY. 299 

In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 
Interpreter between the Gods and men, 
AVho look'd all native to her place, and yet 
On tiptoe seeni'd to touch upon a sphere 
Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce 
Sway'd to her from their orbits as they moved, 
And girdled her ^nth music. Happy he 
With such a mother ! faith in womankind 
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high 
Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall 
He shall not blind his soul with clay." 

" But I," 
Said Ida, tremulously, " so all unlike — 
It seems you love to cheat yourself with words : 
This mother is your model. I have heard 
Of your strange doubts : they well might be : I seem 
A mockery to my own self. Never, Prince ; 
You cannot love me." 

" Nay, but thee," I said, 
" From yearlong poring on thy pictured eyes. 
Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, and saw 
Thee woman thro' the crust of iron moods 
That mask'd thee from men's reverence up, and forced 
Sweet love on pranks of saucy boyhood : now, 
Giv'n back to life, to life indeed, thro' thee. 
Indeed I love : the new day comes, the light 
Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults 
Lived over : lift thine eyes ; my doubts are dead, 
My haunting sense of hollow shows : the change, 
This trutiiful change in thee has kill'd it. Dear, 
Look up, and let thy nature strike on mine. 
Like yonder morning on the blind half-world ; 
Approach and fear not ; breathe upon my brows ; 
In that fine air I tremble, all the past 
Melts mist-Hke into this bright hour, and this 
Is morn to more, and all the rich To-come 
Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland reels 
Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. Forgive me, 
I waste my heart in signs : let be. My bride. 
My wife, my life. O we will walk this world, 
Yoked in all exercise of noble end. 
And so thro' those dark gates across the wild 
That no man knows. Indeed I love thee : come, 
Yield thyself up : my hopes and thine are one : 
Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself; 
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me." 



300 THE PRINCESS 



CONCLUSION. 



So closed our tale, of which I give you all 

The random scheme as wildly as it rose : 

The words are mostly mine ; for when we ceased 

There came a minute's pause, and Walter said, 

" I wish she had not yielded ! " then to me, 

" What, if you drest it up poetically ! " 

So pray'd the men, the women : I gave assent : 

Yet how to bind the scattered scheme of seven 

Together in one sheaf? What style could suit ? 

The men required that I should give throughout 

The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque. 

With which we banter'd little Lilia first : 

The women — and perhaps they felt their power, 

For something in the ballads which they sang. 

Or in their silent influence as they sat. 

Had ever seem'd to wrestle with burlesque. 

And drove us, last, to quite a solemn close — 

They hated banter, wish'd for something real, 

A gallant fight, a noble princess — why 

Not make her true-heroic — true-sublime ? 

Or all, they said, as earnest as the close ? 

Which yet with such a framework scarce could be. 

Then rose a little feud betwixt the two, 

Betwixt the mockers and the realists : 

And I, betwixt them both, to please them both. 

And yet to give the story as it rose, 

I moved as in a strano-e diag-onal. 

And maybe neither pleased myself nor them. 

But Lilia pleased me, for she took no part 
In our dispute : the sequel of the tale 
Had touch'd her ; and she sat, she pluck'd the grass. 
She flung it from her, thinking : last, she fixt 
A showery glance upon her aunt, and said, 
" You — tell us what we are," who might have told. 
For she was cramm'd with theories out of books. 
But that there rose a shout : the gates were closed 
At sunset, and the crowd were swarming now, 
To take their leave, about the garden rails. 

So I and some went out to these : we climb'd 
The slope to Yivian-place, and turning saw 



A MEDLEY. 301 

The happy valleys, half in light, and half 
Fai^shadownng from the west, a land of peace ; 
Gray halls alone among their massive groves ; 
Trim hamlets ; here and there a rustic tower 
Half-lost in belts of hop and breadths of wheat ; 
The shimmering glimpses of a stream ; the seas ; 
A red sail, or a white ; and far beyond, 
Imagined more than seen, the skirts of France. 

" Look there, a garden ! " said my college friend, 
The Tory member's elder son, " and there ! 
God bless the narrow sea Avhich keeps her off. 
And keeps onr Britain, whole within herself, 
A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled — 
Some sense of duty, something of a faith, 
Some reverence for the laws ourselves have made, 
Some patient force to change them when we will, 
Some civic manhood firm against the crowd — 
But yonder, whiff! there comes a sudden heat. 
The gravest citizen seems to lose his head, 
The king is scared, the soldier will not fight, 
The httle boys begin to shoot and stab, 
A kingdom topples over with a shriek 
Like an old woman, and down rolls the world 
In mock heroics stranger than our own ; 
Revolts, republics, revolutions, most 
No graver than a schoolboys' barring out ; 
Too comic for the solemn things they are. 
Too solemn for the comic touches in them, 
Like our wild Princess with as wise a dream 
As some of theirs — God bless the narrow seas ! 
I wish they were a whole Atlantic broad." 

" Have patience," I replied, " ourselves are full 
Of social wrong ; and maybe wildest dreams 
Are but the needful preludes of the truth : 
For me, the genial day, the happy crowd, 
The sport half-science, fill me with a faith. 
This fine old world of ours is but a child 
Yet in the go-cart. Patience ! Give it time 
To learn its limbs : there is a hand that guides." 

In such discourse we gain'd the garden rails, 
And there we saw Sir Walter where he stood. 
Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks, 



302 THE PRINCESS : A MEDLEY. 

Among six boys, head under head, and look'd 

No little lily-handed Baronet he, 

A great broad-shoulder'd genial Englishman, 

A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, 

A raiser of huge melons and of pine, 

A patron of some thirty charities, 

A pamphleteer on guano and on grain, 

A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none ; 

Fair-hair'd and redder than a windy morn ; 

Now shaking hands with him, now him, of those 

That stood the nearest — now address'd to speech — 

Who spoke few words and pithy, such as closed 

Welcome, farewell, and welcome for the year 

To follow : a shout rose again, and made 

The long line of the approaching rookery swerve 

From the elms, and shook the branches of the deer 

From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, and rang 

Beyond the bourn of sunset ; O, a shout 

More joyful than the city-roar that hails 

Premier or king ! Why should not these great Sirs 

Give up their parks some dozen times a year 

To let the people breathe ? So thrice they cried, 

I likewise, and in groups they stream'd away. 

But we went back to the Abbey, and sat on. 
So much the gathering darkness charm'd : we sat 
But spoke not, rapt in nameless reverie, 
Perchance upon the future man : the walls 
Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and owls whoop'd. 
And gradually the powers of the night, 
That range above the region of the wind. 
Deepening the courts of twilight, broke them up 
Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds. 
Beyond all thought into the Heaven of Heavens. 

Last little Lilia, rising quietly, 
Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir Ralph 
From those rich silks, and home, well-pleased, we went. 



IN MEMORIAM. 303 



IN MEMORIAJM 



Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 

Whom we, that have not seen thy face, 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace, • 

Believing where we cannot prove ; 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; 

Thou niadest Life in man and brute ; 

Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : 

Thou madest man, he knows not why ; 
He thinks he was not made to die ; 

And thou hast made him : thou art just. 

Thou seemest human and divine, 

The highest, holiest manhood, thou : 
Our wills are oui-s, we know not how ; 

Our wills a.ve ours, to make them thine. 

Our little systems have their day ; 

They have their day and cease to be : 
They are but broken lights of thee, 

And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 

We have but faith : we cannot know ; 

For knowledge is of things we see ; 

And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
A beam in darkness : let it grow. 

Let knowledge grow from more to more. 
But more of reverence in us dwell ; 
That mind and soul, acct)rding well, 

May make one music as before, 

But vaster. We are fools and slight ; 

We mock thee when we do not fear : 
But help thy foolish ones to bear ; 

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me 

What seem'd my worth since I began ; 



304 IN MEMORIAM. 

For merit lives from man to man, 
And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one removed, 

Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
■ I trust he hves in thee, and there 
I find him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive these wild and wandering cries, 
Confusions of a wasted youth ; 
Forgive them where they fail in truth, 

And in thy wisdom make me wise. 

1849. 




A, H. li. 
OUUT MDCCCX.VXlIt. 

L 

1 HELD it truth, with him Avho sings 

To one clear harp in divers tones, 
That men may rise on stepping-stones 

Of their dead selves to liigher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years 

And find in loss a gain to match V 
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch 

The far-off interest of tears y 

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be diownd, 
Let darkness keep her raven gloss : 
Ah, sweeter to be drunk Avith loss, 

To dance with death, to beat the ground, 

Than that the victor Hours should scorn 
The long result of love, and boast, 
'• Behold tiie man that loved and lost, 

But all' ho was is overworu." 



n. 

Old yew, which gras})est at the stones 
That name the underlying dead, 
Thy fibres net the dreamless head, 

Thy roots arc wrapt about the boue.s. 
•2) 



306 IN MEMORIAM. 

The seasons bring the flower again, 

And bring the firstling to the flock ; 
And in the dusk of thee, the clock 

Beats out the little lives of men. 

O not for thee the glow, the bloom, 
Who changest not in any gale, 
Nor branding summer suns avail 

To touch thy thousand years of gloom : 

And gazing on thee, sullen tree. 

Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, 
I seem to fail from out my blood 

And grow incorporate into thee. 

III. 

O SORROW, cruel fellowship, 

O Priestess in the vaults of Death, 

sweet and bitter in a breath, 
What whispers fi:x)m thy lying lip ? 

" The stars," she whispers, " blindly run ; 

A web is wov'n across the sky ; 

From out waste places comes a cry. 
And mm-murs from the dying sun : 

"And all the phantom, Nature, stands — 
With all the music in her tone, 
A hollow echo of my own, — 

A hollow form with empty hands." 

And shall I take a thing so blind, 

Embrace her as my natural good ; 
Or crush her, like a vice of blood, 

Upon the threshold of the mind ? 

IV. 

To Sleep I give my powei-s away ; 

My will is bondsman to the dark ,' 

1 sit within a helmless bark. 
And with my heart I muse and say : 

O heart, how fares it with thee now. 

That thou should'st fail from thy desire, 



IN MGMORIAM. 307 

AVlio scarcely darest to inquire, 
" What is it makes me beat so low ? " 

Something it is which thou hast lost, 

Some pleasure from thine early years. 
Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears, 

That grief hath shaken into frost ! 

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross 
All night below th3 darken'd eyes ; 
With morning wakes the will, and cries, 

" Thou shalt not be the fool of loss." 



V. 

I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin 

To put in words the grief I feel ; 
For words, like Nature, half reveal 

And half conceal the Soul within. 

But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
A use in measured language lies ; 
The sad mechanic exercise. 

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 

In words, like weeds, I '11 ^vr^a,p me o'er, 

Like coai-sest clothes against the cold ; 
But that large grief which these enfold 

Is given in outline and no more. 

VI. 

One writes, that " Other friends remain," 
That " Loss is common to the race " — 
And common is the commonplace, 

And vacant chaff well meant for grain. 

That loss is common would not make 
My own less bitter, rather more : 
Too common ! Never morning wore 

To evening, but some heart did break. 

O father, Avheresoe'er thou be. 

Who pledgest now thy gallant son ; 
A shot, ere half thy draught be done. 

Hath still'd the life that beat from thee. 



308 IN MEMORIAM. 

mother, praying God will save 

Thy sailor, — while thy head is bow'd, 
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud 

Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 

Ye know no more than I who wrought 

At that last hour to please him well ; 
Who mused on all I had to tell, 

And something written, something thought ; 

Expecting still his advent home ; 
And ever met him on his way 
With wishes, thinking, here to-day, 

Or here to-morrow will he come. 

O somewhere, meek unconscious dove, 
That sittest ranging golden hair ; 
And glad to find thyself so fair, 

Poor child, that waitest for thy love ! 

For now her father's chimney glows 

In expectation of a guest ; 

And thinking " this will please him best, 
She takes a riband or a rose ; 

For he will see them on to-night ; 

And with the thought her color burns ; 

And, having left the glass, she tm^ns 
Once more to set a ringlet right ; 

And, even when she turn'd, the curse 
Had fallen, and her futm^e Lord 
Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford, 

Or kiU'd in falling from his horse. 

O what to her shall be the end ? 

And what to me remains of good ? 

To her, perpetual maidenhood. 
And unto me no second friend. 

VII. 

Dark house, by which once more I stand 
Here in the long unlovely street. 
Doors, where my heart was used to beat 

So quickly, waiting for a hand, 



IN MEMORIAM. 309 

A hand that can be clasp'd no more — 

Behold me, for I cannot sleep, 

And like a gnilty thing I creep 
At earliest morning to the door. 

He is not here ; but far away 

The noise of life begins again, 
And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain 

On the bald street breaks the blank day. 

VIII. 

A HAPPY lover who has come 

To look on her that loves him well. 
Who 'lights and rings the gateway bell, 

And learns her gone and far from home ; 

He saddens, all the magic light 

Dies off at once from bower and hall, 
And all the place is dark, and all 

The chambers emptied of delight : 

So find I every pleasant spot 

In which we two were wont to meet. 
The field, the chamber and the street, 

For all is dark where thou art not. 

Yet as that other, wandering there 

In those deserted walks, may find 
A flower beat with rain and wind, 

Which once she foster'd up with care ; 

So seems it in my deep regret, 

my forsaken heart, with thee 
And this poor flower of poesy 

Which little cared for fades not yet. 

But since it pleased a vanish'd eye, 

1 go to plant it on his tomb, 
That if it can it there may bloom, 

Or dying, there at least may die. 

IX. 

Fair sliip, that from the Italian shore 
Sailest tlie placid ocean-plains 



310 IN MEMORIAM. 

With my lost Arthur's loved remains, 
Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. 

So draw him home to those that mourn 
In vain ; a favorable speed 
Kuffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead 

Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. 

All. night no ruder air perplex 

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright 
As our pure love, thro' early light 

Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 

Sphere all your lights around, above ; 

Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow ; 

Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now. 
My friend, the brother of my love ; 

My Arthur, whom I shall not see 

Till all my widow'd race be run ; 
Dear as the mother to the son, 

More than my brothers are to me. 

X. 

I HEAH the noise about thy keel ; 

I hear the bell struck in the night ; 

I see the cabin-window bright ; 
I see the sailor at the wheel. 

Thou bringest the sailor to his wife. 

And travell'd men from foreign lands ; 
And letters unto trembling hands ; 

And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life. 

So bring him : we have idle dreams : 
This look of quiet flatters thus 
Our home-bred fancies : to us. 

The fools of habit, sweeter seems 

To rest beneath the clover sod. 

That takes the sunshine and the rains. 
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains 

The chalice of the grapes of God ; 



IX MEMORIAM. 311 

Than if witli tlice the roaring wells 

Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine; 
And hands so often clasp'd in mine, 

Shoidd toss with tangle and with shells. 

XI. ■ 

Calm is the morn without a sound, 

Calm as to suit a calmer grief, 

And only thro' the faded leaf 
The chestnut pattering to the ground : 

Calm and deep peace on this high wold, 

And on these dews that drench the furze, 
And all the silvery gossamers 

That twinkle into green and gold : 

Calm and still light on yon great plain 

That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, 
And crowded farms and lessening towers. 

To mingle with the bounding main : 

Calm and deep peace in this wide air, 

These leaves that redden to the fall ; 
And in my heart, if calm at all. 

If any calm, a calm despair : 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, 

And waves that sway themselves in rest, 
And dead calm in that noble breast 

Which heaves but with the heaving deep. 

XII. 

Lo, as a dove when up she springs 

To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe, 
Some dolorous message knit below 

The wild pulsation of her wings ; 

Like her I go ; I cannot stay ; 

I leave this mortal ark behind, 

A weight of nerves without a mind. 

And leave the cliffs, and haste aAvay 

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large. 

And reach the glow of southern skies, 



312 IN MEMORIAM. 

And see the sails at distance rise, 
And linger weeping on the marge, 

And saying ; " Comes he thus, my friend ? 

Is this the end of all my care ? " 

And circle moaning in the air : 
" Is this the end ? Is this the end ? " 

And forward dart again, and play 

About the prow, and back return 
To where the body sits, and learn, 

That I have been an hour away. 

XIII. 

Tears of the widower, when he sees 
A late-lost form that sleep reveals, 
And moves his doubtful arms, and feels 

Her place is empty, fall like these ; 

Which weep a loss forever new, 

A void where heart on heart reposed ; 

And, where warm hands have prest and clos'd, 

Silence, till I be silent too. 

Which weep the comrade of my choice, 
An awful thought, a life removed. 
The human-hearted man I loved, 

A Spirit, not a breathing voice. 

Come Time, and teach me, many years, 

I do not suffer in a dream ; 

For now so strange do these things seem, 
Mine eyes have leisure for their tears ; 

My fancies time to rise on wing. 

And glance about the approaching sails, 
As tho' they brought but merchants' bales, 

And not the burden that they bring. 

XIV. 

If one should bring me this report. 

That thou hadst touch'd the land to-day. 
And I went down unto the quay, 

And found thee lying in the port ; 



IK MEMORIAM. 313 

And standing, muffled round with woe, 
Should see thy passengers in rank 
Come stepping lightly down the plank, 

And beckoning unto those they know; 

And if along with these should come 

The man I held as half-divine ; 

Should strike a sudden hand in mine, 
And ask a thousand things of home ; 

And I should tell him all my pain, 

And how my life had droop'd of late, 
And he should sorrow o'er my state 

And marvel what possess'd my brain ; 

And I perceived no touch of change, 
No hint of death in all his frame, 
But found him all in all the same, 

I should not feel it to be strange. 

XV. 

To-night the winds begin to rise 

And roar from yonder dropping day : 
The last red leaf is whirl'd away, 

The rooks are blown about the skies ; 

The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd. 

The cattle huddled on the lea ; 

And wildly dash'd on tower and tree 
The sunbeam strikes along the world : 

And but for fancies, which aver 

That all thy motions gently pass 

Atlhvart a plane of molten glass, 
I scarce could brook the strain and stir 

That makes the barren branches loud ; 

And but for fear it is not so. 

The wild unrest that lives in woe 
Would dote and pore on yonder cloud 

That rises upAvard always higher, 

And onward drags a laboring breast, 
And topples round the dreary west, 

A looming bastion fringed with fire. 



314 IN MEMORIAM. 

XVI. 

What words are these have faH'n from me ? 
Can calm despair and wild unrest 
Be tenants of a single breast, 

Or sorrow such a changeling be ? 

Or doth she only seem to take 

The touch of change in calm or storm ; 

But knows no more of transient form 
In her deep self, than some dead lake 

That holds the shadow of a lark 

Hung in the shadow of a heaven ? 
Or has the shock, so harshly given, 

Confused me like the unhappy bark 

That strikes by night a craggy shelf, 

And staggers blindly ere she sink ? 
And stunn'd me from my power to think 

And all my knowledge of myself 5 

And made me that delirious man 

Whose fancy fuses old and new, 
And flashes into false and true. 

And mingles all without a plan ? 

XVII. 

Tirou comest, much wept for : such a breeze 
Compell'd thy canvas, and my prayer 
Was as the whisper of an air 

To breathe thee over lonely seas. 

For I in spirit saw thee move 

Thro' circles of the bounding sky. 
Week after week : the days go by : 

Come quick, thou bringest all I love. 

Henceforth, wherever thou may'st roam. 
My blessing, like a line of light. 
Is on the waters day and night. 

And like a beacon guards thee home. 

So may whatever tempest mars 

Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark ; 



IX MEMORIAM. 315 

And balmy drops In summer dark 
Slide fi'om the bosom of the stars. 

So kind an office hath been done, 

Such precious relics brought by thee ; 
The dust of him I shall not see 

Till all my widow'd race be run. 

XVIII. 

'T IS well ; 't is something ; we may stand 
Where he in English earth is laid, 
And from his ashes may be made 

The violet of his native land. 

'T is little ; but it looks in truth 

As if the quiet bones were blest 

Among familiar names to rest 
And in the places of his youth. 

Come then, pure hands, and bear the head 
That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep. 
And come, whatever loves to weep, 

And hear the ritual of the dead. 

Ah yet, ev'n yet, if this might be, 
I, falling on his faithful heart. 
Would breathing thro' his lips impart 

The life that almost dies in me ; 

That dies not, but endures with pain. 
And slowly forms the firmer mind. 
Treasuring the look it cannot find. 

The words that are not heard again. 

XIX. 

The Danube to the Severn gave 

The darken'd heart that beat no more ; 
They laid him by the pleasant shore, 

And in the hearing of the wave. 

There twice a day the Severn fills ; 
The salt sea-water passes by, 
And hushes half the babbling Wye, 

And makes a silence in the hills. 



310 IN MEMOEIAM. 

The Wye is busli'd nor moved along, 

And husli'd my deepest grief of all, 
When fill'd with tears that cannot fall, 

I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

The tide flows down, the wave again 
Is vocal in its wooded walls ; 
My deeper anguish also falls, 

And I can speak a little then. 

XX. 

The lesser griefs that may be said. 

That breathe a thousand tender vows, 
Are but as servants in a house 

Where lies the master newly dead ; 

Who speak their feeling as it is, 

And weep the fulness from the mind ; 
" It will be hard," they say, " to find 

Another service such as this." 

My lighter moods are like to these, 

That out of words a comfort win ; 
But there are other griefs within, 

And tears that at their fountain fi:'eeze ; 

For by the hearth the children sit 

Cold in that atmosphere of Death, 
And scarce endure to draw the breath, 

Or like to noiseless phantoms flit : 

But open converse is there none, 
So much the vital spirits sink 
To see the vacant chair, and think, 

" How good ! how kind ! and he is gone." 

XXI. 

I SESTG to him that rests below, 

And, since the grasses round me wave, 
I take the grasses of the grave. 

And make them pipes whereon to blow. 

The traveller hears me now and then. 

And sometimes harshly will he speak ; 



IN MEMOKIAM. 317 

" This fellow would make weakness weak, 
And melt the waxen hearts of men." 

Another answei-s, " Let him be, 

He loves to make parade of pain, 
That with his pij^ing he may gain 

The praise that comes to constancy." 

A third is Avroth, " Is this an horn' 

For private sorrow's barren song. 
When more and more the people throng 

The chairs and thrones of civil power ? 

A time to sicken and to swoon. 

When Science reaches forth her arms 
To feel from world to Avorld, and charms 

Her secret from the latest moon ? " 

Behold, ye speak an idle thing : 

Ye never knew the sacred dust : 

I do but sing because I must, 
And pipe but as the linnets sing: 

And one is glad ; her note is gay, 

For now her little ones have ranged ; 
And one is sad ; her note is changed, 

Because her brood is stol'n away. 

XXII. 

The path by which we twain did go, 

Which led by tracts that pleased us well, 
Thro' four sweet years arose and fell, 

From flower to flower, from snow to snow : 

And we with singing cheer'd the way. 

And, crown'd with all the season lent, 
From April on to April went. 

And glad at heart from May to May : 

But where the path we Avalk'd began 

To slant the fifth autumnal slope, 

As we descended following Hope, 
There sat the Shadow fear'd of man ; 



318 IN MEMORIAM. 

Who broke our fair companionship, 

And spread his mantle dark and cold, 
And wrapt thee formless in the fold, 

And dull'd the murmur on thy lip, 

And bore thee where I could not see 
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste, 
And think, that somewhere in the waste 

The Shadow sits and waits for me. 

XXIII. 

Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, 
Or breaking into song by fits, 
Alone, alone, to where he sits. 

The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot, 

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
I wander, often falling lame, 
And looking back to whence I came, 

Or on to where the pathway leads ; 

And crying, " How changed from where it ran 
Thro' lands where not a leaf was dumb ; 
But all the lavish hills would hum 

The murmur of a happy Pan : 

When each by turns was guide to each, 
And Fancy light from Fancy caught. 
And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought 

Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech ; 



And all was good that Time could bring, 
And all the secret of the Spring 
Moved in the chambers of the blood ; 

And many an old philosophy 

On Argive heights divinely sang. 
And round us all the thicket rang 

To many a flute of Arcady." 

XXIV. 



And was the day of my delight 

As pure and perfect as I say ? 



IN MEMORIAM. 319 



The very source and fount of Day- 
Is dasb'd Avith uaudering isles of night. 

If all was good and fair we met, 

This earth had been the Paradise 
It never look'd to human eyes 

Since Adam left his garden yet. 

And is it that the haze of grief 

Makes former gladness loom so great ? 

The lowness of the present state, 
That sets the past in this relief? 

Or that the past will always win 

A glory from its being far ; 

And orb into the perfect star 
We saw not, when we moved therein ? 



XXV. 

I KNOW that this was life, — the track 
"VMiereon with equal feet we fared ; 
And then, as now, the day prepared 

The daily burden for the back. 

But this it Avas that made me move 
As light as carrier-birds in air ; 
I loved the weight I had to bear, 

Because it needed help of Love : 

Nor could I weary, heart or limb, 

When mighty Love would cleave in twain 

The lading of a single pain. 
And part it, giving half to him. 

XXVI. 

Still onward winds the dreary way; 
I with it ; for I long to prove 
No lapse of moons can canker Love, 

Whatever fickle tongues may say. 

And if that eye which Avatches guilt 

And goodness, and hath power to see 
AVithin the green the moulder'd tree. 

And towers fall'n as soon as built — 



320 IN MEMORIAM. 

Oh, If Indeed that eye foresee 

Or see (In Him Is no before) 
In more of life true life no more 

And Love the indifference to be, 

Then might I find, ere yet the morn 
Breaks hither over Indian seas, 
That Shadow waiting with the keys, 

To shroud me from my proper scorn. 

XXVII. 

I ENVY not in any moods 

The captive void of noble rage, 
The linnet born within the cage, 

That never knew the summer woods : 

I envy not the beast that takes 

His license in the field of time, 
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime, 

To whom a conscience never wakes ; 

Nor, what may count itself as blest. 

The heart that never plighted troth 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; 

Nor any want-begotten rest. 

I hold it true, whate'er befall ; 

I feel It, when I sorrow most ; 

'TIs better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at aU. 




XXVIII. 

The time draws near the birth of Christ: 
The moon is hid ; the night is still ; 
The Christmas bells from hill to hill 

Answer each other in the mist. 

Four voices of four hamlets round, 

From far and near, on mead and moor, 
Swell out and fail, as if a door 

Were shut between me and the sound : 

Each voice four changes on the wind. 

That now dilate, and now decrease, 
Peace and good-will, good-will and peace 

Peace and good-will, to all mankind. 

This year I slept and woke with j)ain, 
1 almost wish'd no more to wake, 
And that my iiold on life would break 

Before I heard those bells again : 

\ But they my troubled spirit rule, 

For they controll'd me when a boy ; 
They bring me sorrow tonch'(] with joy, 
The meri-v, merrv \yv\h of Yule. 



XX I. v. 

With such compelling cause to grieve 
As daily vexes household peace, 
And chains regret to his (lecease, 

How dare we keep our Christmas-eve; 



322 IN MEMORIAM. 

Which brings no more a welcome guest 
To enrich the threshold of the night 
With shower'd largess of delight, 

In dance and song and game and jest. 

Yet go, and while the holly boughs 
Entwine the cold baptismal font, 
Make one wreath more for Use and Wont, 

That guard the portals of the house ; 

Old sisters of a day gone by, 

Gray nurses, loving nothing new ; 
Why should they miss their yearly due 

Before their time ? They too will die. 



XXX. 

With trembling fingers did we weave 

The holly round the Christmas hearth ; 
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth, 

And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. 

At our old pastimes in the hall 

We gambol'd, making vain pretence 
Of gladness, with an awful sense 

Of one mute Shadow watching all. 

We paused : the winds were in the beech : 
We heard them sweep the winter land ; 
And in a circle hand-in-hand 

Sat silent, looking each at each. 

Then echo-like our voices rang ; 

We sung, tho' every eye was dim, 
A merry song we sang with him 

Last year : impetuously we sang : 

We ceased : a gentler feeling crept 

Upon us : surely rest is meet : 

" They rest," we said, " their sleep is sweet,'' 
And silence follow'd, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higher range ; 

Once more we sang : " They do not die 

Nor lose their mortal sympathy. 
Nor change to us, although they change ; 



\ 



IX MEMORIAM. 323 

Rapt fix)m the fickle and the frail 

With gather'd power, yet the same, 
Pierces the keen seraphic flame 

From orb to orb, from veil to veil." 

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, 

Draw forth the cheerful day from night ; 
Father, touch the east, and light 

The light that shone when Hope was born. 

XXXI. 

When Lazarus left his charnel-cave. 

And home to Mary's house return'd. 
Was this demanded — if he yearn'd 

To hear her weeping by his grave ? 

" Where wert thou, brother, tliose four days ? " 

There lives no record of reply. 

Which telling what it is to die 
Had surely added praise to praise. 

From every house the neighbors met. 

The streets were fiU'd with joyful sound, 
A solemn gladness even crown'd 

The purple brows of Olivet. 

Behold a man raised up by Christ ! 

The rest remaineth unreveal'd ; 

He told it not ; or something seal'd 
The lips of that Evangelist. 

xxxn. 

Her eyes arc homes of silent prayer, 

Nor other thought her mind admits 
But, he was dead, and there he sits, 

And He that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face, 

And rests upon the Life indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious feai-s, 

Borne down by gladness so complete. 



324 IN MEMORIAM. 

She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet 
With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, 
Whose loves in higher love endure ; 
What souls possess themselves so pure, 

Or is there blessedness like theirs ? 

XXXIII. 

O THOU that after toil and storm 

Mayst seem to have reach'd a purer air, 
Whose faith has centre everywhere, 

Nor cares to fix itself to form, 

Leave thou thy sister when she prays, 

Her early Heaven, her happy views ; 
Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse 

A life that leads melodious days. 

Her faith thro' form is pure as thine. 

Her hands are quicker unto good : 
Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood 

To which she links a truth divine ! 

See thou, that countest reason ripe 
In holding by the law within. 
Thou fail not in a world of sin, 

And ev'n for want of such a type. 

XXXIV. 

My own dim life should teach me this. 
That life shall live for evermore, 
Else earth is darkness at the core, 

And dust and ashes all that is ; 

This round of green, this orb of flame, 
Fantastic beauty ; such as lurks 
In some wild Poet, when he works 

Without a conscience or an aim. 

What then were God to such as I ? 

'T were hardly worth my while to choose 
Of things all mortal, or to use 

A little patience ere I die ; 



IN MEMORIAM. 325 

'T were best at once to sink to peace, 

Like birds the charming serpent draws, 
To drop head-foremost in the jaws 

Of vacant darkness and to cease. 

XXXV. 

Yet if some voice that man could trust 

Should murmur from the narrow house, 
" The cheeks drop in ; the body bows ; 

Man dies : nor is there hope in dust : " 

Might I not say ? " Yet even here, 

But for one hour, O Love, I strive 
To keep so sweet a thing alive : " 

But I should turn mine ears and hear 

The meanings of the homeless sea. 

The sound of streams that swift or slow 
Draw down JEonian hills, and sow 

The dust of continents to be ; 

And Love would answer with a sigh, 

'' The sound of that forgetful shore 

Will change my sweetness more and more. 

Half-dead to know that I shall die." 

O me, what profits it to put 

An idle case ? If Death were seen 
At first as Death, Love had not been. 

Or been in narrowest working shut, 

Mere fellowship of sluggish moods. 

Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape 

Had bruised the herb and crush'd the grape. 
And bask'd and batten'd in the woods. 

XXXVL 

Tho' truths in manhood darkly join. 

Deep-seated in our mystic frame, 

AVe yield all blessing to the name 
Of Him that made them current coin ; 

For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, 

Where truth in closest words shall fail, 



32B 



IN MEMORIAM. 

When truth embodied in a tale 
Shall enter in at lowly doors. 

And so the Word had breath, and wrought 
With human hands the creed of creeds 
In loveliness of perfect deeds, 

More strong than all poetic thought ; 

Which he may read that binds the sheaf, 
Or builds the house, or digs the grave, 
And those wild eyes that watch the wave 

In roarings round the coral reef 

XXXVII. 

Ukania speaks with darken'd brow : 

" Thou pratest here where thou art least ; 
This faith has many a purer priest. 

And many an abler voice than thou. 

Go down beside thy native rill. 

On thy Parnassus set thy feet, 
And hear thy laurel whisper sweet 

About the ledges of the hill." 

And my Melpomene replies, 

A touch of shame upon her cheek : 
" I am not worthy ev'n to speak 

■ Of thy prevailing mysteries ; 

For I am but an earthly Muse, 
And owning but a little art 
To lull with song an aching heart, 

And render human love his dues ; 

But brooding on the dear one dead, 
And all he said of things divine, 
(And dear to me as sacred wine 

To dying lips is all he said), 

I murmur'd, as I came along, 

Of comfort clasp'd in truth reveal'd ; 

And lolter'd in the Master's field, 
And darken'd sanctities with sons:." 



IN JfEMORIAM. 327 

XXXVIII. 

With weary steps I loiter on, 

Tho' always under alter'd skies 
The purple from the distance dies, 

My prospect and horizon gone. 

No joy the blowing season gives, 

The herald melodies of spring. 

But in the sono-s J love to sino^ 
A doubtful gleam of solace lives. 

If any care for what is here 

Survive in spirits render'd free, 
Then are these songs I sing of thee 

Not all ungrateful to thine ear. 



XXXIX. 

Could we forget the widow'd hour 

And look on Spirits breathed away, 
As on a maiden in the day 

When first she wears her orange-flower ! 

When crown'd with blessing she doth rise 
To take her latest leave of home. 
And hopes and light regrets that come 

Make April of her tender eyes ; 

And doubtful joys the father move, 

And tears are on the mother's face. 
As parting with a long embrace 

She enters other realms of love ; 

Her office there to rear, to teach, 
Becoming as is meet and fit 
A link' among the days, to knit 

The generations each with each ; 

And, doubtless, unto thee is given 
A life that bears immortal fruit 
In such great offices as suit 

The full-grown energies of heaven. 

Ay me, the difference I discern ! 

How often shall her old fireside 



328 IN MEMORIAM. 

Be clieer'd with tidings of the bride, 
How often she herself return, 

And tell them all they would have told, 

And bring her babe, and make her boast, 
Till even those that miss'd her most, 

Shall count new things as dear as old : 

But thou and I have shaken hands. 

Till growing winters laj me low ; 
My paths are in the fields I know 

And thine in undlscover'd lands. 



XL. 

Thy spirit ere our fatal loss 

Did ever rise from high to higher ; 

As mounts the heavenward altar-fire, 
As flies the lighter thro' th<i gross. 

But thou art turn'd to something strange, 
And I have lost the links that bound 
Thy changes ; here upon the ground. 

No more partaker of thy change. 

Deep folly ! yet tliat this could be — 

That I could wing my will with might 
To leap the grades of life and light, 

And flash at once, my friend, to thee: 

For tho' my nature rarely yields 

To that vague fear implied in death; 
Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath, 

The bowlings from forgotten fields ; 

Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor 

An inner trouble I behold, 

A spectral doubt which makes me cold, 
That I shall be thy mate no more, 

Tho' following with an upward mind 

The wonders that have come to thee. 
Thro' all the secular to-be. 

But evermore a fife behind. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



XLI. 



329 



I VEX my heart with fancies dim : 

He still outstript me in the race ; 
It was but unity of place 

That made me dream I rank'd with him. 

And so may Place retain us still, 

And he the much-beloved again, 
A lord of large experience, train 

To riper growth the mind and will : 

And what delights can equal those 

That stir the spirit's inner deeps. 

When one that loves but knows not, reaps 

A truth from one that loves and knows ? 



XLII. 

If Sleep and Death be truly one, 

And every spirit's folded bloom 
Thro' all its intervital gloom 

In some long trance should slumber on ; 

Unconscious of the sliding hour. 

Bare of the body, might it last, 
And silent traces of the past 

Be all the color of the flower : 

So then were nothing lost to man ; 
So tliat still garden of the souls 
In man}' a figured leaf enrolls 

The total world since life began ; 

And love will last as pure and whole 

As when he loved me here in Time, 
And at the spiritual prime 

Rewaken with the dawning soul. 



XLIII. 

How fares it with the happy dead ? 

For here the man is more and more ; 

But he forgets the days before 
God shut the doorways of his head. 



330 IN MEMORIAM. 

The days have vanlsh'd, tone and tint, 
And yet perhaps the hoarding sense 
Gives out at times (he knows not whence) 

A little flash, a mystic hint ; 

And in the long harmonious years 

(If Death so taste Lethean springs) 
May some dim touch of earthly things 

Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. 

If such a dreamy touch should fall, 

O turn thee round, resolve the doubt ; 
My guardian angel will speak out 

In that high place, and tell thee all. 

XLIV. 

The baby new to earth and sky, 

What time his tender palm is prest 
Against the circle of the breast, 

Has never thought that " this is I : " 

But as he grows he gathers much, 

And learns the use of " I," and " me," 
And finds " I am not what I see. 

And other than the things I touch." 

So rounds he to a separate mind 

From whence clear memory may begin, 
As thro' the frame that binds him in 

His isolation grows defined. 

This use may lie in blood and breath, 

Which else were fruitless of their due, 
Had man to learn himself anew 

Beyond the second birth of Death. 

XLV. 

We ranging down this lower track. 

The path we came by, thorn and flower, 
Is shadow'd by the growing hour. 

Lest life should fail in looking back. 

So be it : there no shade can last 

In that deep dawn behind the tomb. 



IX MEMORIAM. 331 

But clear fi-om marge to marge shall bloom 
The eternal landsca^ie of the past ; 

A lifelong tract of time reveaVd ; 

The fruitful hours of still increase : 

Days order'd in a wealthy peace, 
And those five }'ears its richest field. 

O Love, thy province were not large, 

A bounded field, nor stretching far ; 
Look also. Love, a brooding star, 

A rosy warmth fi-om marge to marge. 

XL VI. 

That each, who seems a separate whole, 

Should move his rounds, and fusing all 
The skirts of self again, should fall 

Remerging in the general Soul, 

Is faith as vague as all unsweet : 

Eternal form shall still divide 

The eternal soul from all beside ; 
And I shall know him when we meet : 

t 

And we shall sit at endless feast. 

Enjoying each the other's good : 
What vaster dream can hit the mood 

Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least 

Upon the last and sharpest height. 
Before the spirits fiide away. 
Some landing-place, to clasp and say, 

" Farewell ! We lose ourselves in liorht." 



XLVIL 
If these brief lays, of Sorrow born. 
Were taken to be such as closed 
Grave doubts and answers here proposed, 
Then these were such as men might scorn : 

Her care is not to part and prove ; 

She takes, when harsher moods remit. 
What slender shade of doubt may flit. 

And makes it vassal unto love : 



332 IN MEMOEIAM. 

And hence, indeed, she sports with words, 
But better serves a wholesome law, 
And holds it sin and shame to draw 

The deepest measure from the chords : 

Nor dare she trust a larger lay, 

But rather loosens from the lip 
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip 

Their wings in tears, and skim away. 

XLVIII. 

From art, from nature, from the schools. 
Let random influences glance, 
Like light in many a shiver'd lance 

Tliat breaks about the dappled pools : 

The lightest wave of thought shall lisp. 
The fancy's tenderest eddy wreathe. 
The slightest air of song shall breathe 

To make the sullen surface crisp. 

And look thy look, and go thy way. 

But blame not thou the winds that make 
The seeming-wanton ripple break, 

The tender-pencil'd shadow play. 

Beneath all fancied hopes and fears 

Ay me, the sorrow deepens down. 
Whose muffled motions blindly drown 

The bases of my life in tears. 

XLIX. 

Be near me when my light is low. 

When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick 
And tingle ; and the heart is sick, 

And all the wheels of Being slow. 

Be near me when the sensuous frame 

Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust ; 
And Time, a maniac scattering dust, 

And Life, a Fury slinging flame. 

Be near me when my faith is dry, 

And men the flies of latter spring, 



rsr MEMORiAM. 333 

That lay their eggs, and sting and sing, 
And weave their petty cells and die. 

Be near me when I fade away, 

To point the term of human strife. 
And on the low dark verge of life 

The twilight of eternal day. 

L. 

Do we indeed desire the dead 

Should still be near us at our side ? 
Is there no baseness we would hide ? 

No inner vileness that we dread ? 

Shall he for whose applause I strove, 
I had such reverence for his blame, 
See with clear eye some hidden shame 

And I be lessen'd in his love ? 

I wrong the grave with fears untrue : 

Shall love be blamed for want of faith ? 
There must be wisdom with great Death : 

The dead shall look me thro' and thro'. 

Be near us when Ave climb or fall : 

Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours 
With larger, other eyes than ours, 

To make allowance for us all. 

LI. 

I CANXOT love thee as I ought. 

For love reflects the thing beloved ; 
My words are only words, and moved 

Upon the topmost fi-oth of thought. 

" Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song,'* 

The Spirit of true love replied ; 

" Thou canst not move me from thy side, 
Nor human frailty do me wrong. 

" What keeps a spirit wholly true 

To that ideal which he bears ? 

What record V not the sinless years 
That breathed beneath the Syrian blue : 



334 EST MEMORIAM. 

"So fret not, like an idle girl, 

That life is dash'd with flecks of sin. 
Abide : thy wealth is gather'd in, 

When Time hath sunder'd shell from pearl." 

LII. 

How many a father have I seen, 
A sober man, among his boys, 
Whose youth was full of foolish noise, 

Who wears his manhood hale and green : 

And dare we to this fancy give, 

That had the wild oat not been sown, 
The soil, left barren, scarce had grown 

The grain by which a man may live ? 

Oh, if we held the doctrine sound 

For life outliving heats of youth, 
Yet who would preach it as a truth 

To those that eddy round and round ? 

Plold thou the good : define it well : 
For fear divine Philosophy 
Should push beyond her mark, and be 

Procuress to the Lords of Hell. 

LIII. 

Oh yet we trust that somehow good 
WiU be the final goal of ill, 
To pangs of nature, sins of will. 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
That not one life shall be destroy 'd. 
Or cast as rubbish to the void. 

When God hath made the pile complete ; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is slirivel'd in a fruitless fire. 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold, we know not anything ; ^ 

I can but trust that good shall fall 



IN MEMORIAM. 335 

At last — for off — at last, to all, 
And every winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream : but what am I ? 

An infant crying in the night : 

An infant crjing for the light : 
And with no language but a cry. 

LIV. 

The wish, that of tlie living whole 

No life may fail beyond the grave, 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul ? 

Are God and Nature then at strife. 

That Nature lends such evil dreams ? 
So careful of the type slie seems, 

So careless of the single life ; 

That I, considering everywhere 

Her secret meaning in her deeds. 

And finding that of fifty seeds 
She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod, 

And fiilling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar-stairs 

That slope thro' darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope. 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all, 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 

LV. 

" So careful of the type ? " but no. 

From scarped cliff and quarried stone 
She cries, " a thousand types are gone : 

I care for nothing, all shall go. 

" Thou makest thine appeal to me : 
I bring to life, I bring to death : 
The spirit does but mean the breath : 

I know no more." And he, shall he, 



336 iisr memohiam. 

JMan, her last work, who seem'd so fair, 
Such splendid purpose in his eyes, 
Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies, 

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, 

Who trusted God was love indeed 

And love Creation's final law — 
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw 

With ravine, shriek'd against his creed — 

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills, 
Who battled for the True, the Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust, 

Or seal'd within the iron hills ? 

No more ? A monster then, a dream, 
A discord. Dragons of the prime, 
That tare each other in their slime, 

Were mellow music match'd with him. 

life as futile, then, as frail ! 

O for thy voice to soothe and bless ! 
What hope of answer, or redress ? 
Behind the veil, behind the veil. 

LVI. 

Peace ; come away : the song of woe 
Is after all an eartlily song : 
Peace ; come away : we do him wrong 

To sing so wildly : let us go. 

Come ; let us go : your cheeks are pale ; 
But half my life I leave behind : 
Methinks my friend is richly shrined ; 

But I shall pass ; my work will fail. 

Yet in these ears, till hearing dies. 

One set slow bell will seem to toll 
The passing of the sweetest soul 

That ever look'd with human eyes. 

1 hear it now, and o'er and o'er, 

Eternal greetino-s to the dead : 
And "Ave, Ave, Ave," said, 
"Adieu, adieu " for evermore. 



IN MEMORIAM. 337 



LVII. 

In those sad words I took farewell : 
Like echoes in sepulchral halls, 
As drop by drop the water falls 

In vaults and catacombs, they fell ; 

And, falling, idly broke the peace 

Of hearts that beat from day to day, 
Half-conscious of their dying clay, 

And those cold crypts where they shall cease. 

The high Muse answer'd : " Wherefore grieve 
Thy brethren with a fruitless tear ? 
Abide a little longer here. 

And thou shalt take a nobler leave." 

Lvni. 

O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me 
No casual mistress, but a wife, 
My bosom-friend and half of life ; 

As I confess it needs must be ; 

O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood. 
Be sometimes lovely like a bride. 
And put thy hai'sher moods aside, 

If thou Avilt have me wise and good. 

My centred passion cannot move. 

Nor it will it lessen from to-day ; 
But I '11 have leave at times to play 

As with the creature of my love ; 

And set thee forth, for thou art mine, 

With so much hope for years to come, 
That, howsoe'er I know thee, some 

Could hardly tell what name were thine. 

LIX. 

He past ; a soul of nobler tone : 

My spirit loved and loves him yet, 
Like some poor girl whose h'eart is set 

On one whose rank exceeds her own. 
22 



338 IN MEMORIAM. 

He mixing with his proper sphere, 

She finds the baseness of her lot, 
Half jealous of she knows not what, 

And envying all that meet him there. 

The little village looks forlorn ; 

She sighs amid her narrow days. 
Moving about the household ways, 

In that dark house where she was born. 

The foolish neighbors come and go, 

And tease her till the day draws by : 
At night she weeps, " How vain am I ! 

How should he love a thing so low ? " 

LX. 

If, in thy second state sublime, 

Thy ransom'd reason change replies 
With all the circle of the wise, 

The perfect flower of human time ; 

And if thou cast thine eyes below. 

How dimly character'd and slight. 

How dwarf 'd a growth of cold and night, 

How blanch'd with darkness must I grow ! 

Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore. 

Where thy first form was made a man ; 
I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can 

The souJ of Shakspeare love thee more. 

LXI. 

Tho' if an eye that 's downward cast 

Could make thee somewhat blench or fail, 
Then be my love an idle tale. 

And fading legend of the past ; 

And thou, as one that once declined, 

When he was little more than boy. 
On some unworthy heart with joy, 

But lives to wed an equal min^ ; 

And breathes a novel world, the while 
His other passion wholly dies. 



IN MEMORIAM. 339 

Or in the light of deeper eyes 
Is matter for a flying smile. 

LXII. 

Yet pity for a horse o'er-driven, 

And love in which my hound has part, 
Can hang no weight upon my heart 

In its assumptions up to heaven ; 

And I am so much more than these, 

As thou, perchance, art more than I, 
And yet I spare them sympathy 

And I would set their pains at ease. 

So may'st thou watch me Avhere I weep, 

As, unto vaster motions bound, 

The circuits of thine orbit round 
A higher height, a deeper deep. 

LXIII. 

Dost thou look back on what hath been, 

As some divinely gifted man, 

AVhose life in low estate began 
And on a simple village green ; 

Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, 

And grasps the skirts of happy chance, 
And breasts the blows of circumstance, 

And grapples with his evil star ; 

Who makes by force his merit known 

And lives to clutch the golden keys. 
To mould a mighty state's decrees. 

And shape the whlsjDer of the throne ; 

And moving up from high to higher, 

Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope 
The pillar of a people's hope, 

The centre of a world's desire; 

Yet feels, as in a pensive dream. 

When all his active powers are still, 
A distant dearness in the hill, 

A secret sweetness in the stream, 



340 IN MEMORIAM. 

The limit of liis narrower fate. 

While yet beside its vocal springs 
He play'd at counsellors and kings. 

With one that was his earliest mate ; 

Who ploughs with pain his native lea 
And reaps the labor of his hands, 
Or in the furrow musing stands ; 

" Does my old friend remember me ? " 

LXIV. 

Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt ; 
I lull a fancy trouble-tost 
With " Love's too precious to be lost, 

A little grain shall not be spilt." 

And in that solace can I sing, 

Till out of painful phases wrought 
There flutters up a happy thought, 

Self-balanced on a lightsome wing : 

Since we deserved the name of friends. 
And thine effect so lives in me, 
A part of mine may live in thee, 

And move thee on to noble ends. 



LXV. 

You thought my heart too far diseased ; 
You wonder when my fancies play 
To find me gay among the gay. 

Like one with any trifle pleased. 

The shade by Avhich my life Avas crost, 
Which makes a desert in the mind, 
Has made me kindly with my kind. 

And like to him wliose sight is lost ; 

Whose feet are guided thro' the land, 

W^hose jest among his friends is free. 
Who takes the children on his knee, 

And winds their curls about his hand : 

He plays with threads, he beats his chair 
For pastime, dreaming of the sky ; 



IX MEMORIAM. 341 

His inner day can never die, 
His night of loss is always there. 

LXVI. 

When on my bed the moonlight falls, 

I know that in thy place of rest 

By that broad water of the west, 
There comes a glory on the walls : 

Thy marble bright in dark appears. 

As slowly steals a silver flame 

Along the letters of thy name. 
And o'er the number of thy years. 

The mystic glory swims away ; 

From off my bed the moonlight dies ; 

And closing eaves of Avearied eyes 
I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray : 

And then I know the mist is drawn 
A lucid veil from coast to coast. 
And in the dark church like a ghost 

Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. 

LXVII. 

When in the down I sink my head. 

Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times my breath ; 

Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows not Death, 
Nor can I dream of thee as dead : 

I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn, 

Wh(>n all our path was fresh with dew. 

And all the bugle breezes blew 
Reveillee to the breaking morn. 

But what Is this ? I turn about, 
I find a trouble in thine eye, 
AYhi(^li makes me sad I know not Avhy, 

Nor can my dream resolve the doubt : 

But ere the lark hath left the lea 

I wake, and I discern the truth ; 

It is the trouble of my youth 
That foolish sleep transfers to thee. 



342 IN MEMORIAM. 



LXVIII. 



I d'ream'd there would be Spring no more, 
That Nature's ancient power was lost : 
The streets were black with smoke and frost, 

They chatterd trifles at the door : 

I wander'd from the noisy town, 

I found a wood with thorny boughs : 
I took the thorns to bind my brows, 

I wore them like a civic crown : 

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns 

From youth and babe and hoary hairs : 
They call'd me in the public squares 

The fool that wears a crown of thorns : 

They call'd me fool, they call'd me cliild : 

I found an angel of the night ; 

The voice was low, the look was bright ; 
He look'd upon my crown and smiled : 

He reach'd the glory of a hand, 

That seem'd to touch it into leaf: 
The voice was not the voice of grief, 

The words were hard to understand. 

LXIX. 

I CANNOT see the features right, 

When on the gloom I strive to paint 
The face I know ; the hues are faint 

And mix with hollow masks of night ; 

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, 
A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, 
A hand that points, and palled shapes 

In shadowy thoroughfares of thought ; 

And crowds that stream from yawning 'doors, 
And shoals of pucker'd faces drive ; 
Dark bulks tliat tumble half alive. 

And lazy lengths on boundless shores : 

Till all at once beyond the will 
I hear a wizard music roll. 



EST MEMORIAM. 343 

And thro' a lattice on the soul 
Looks thy fair face and makes it still. 

LXX. 

Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance 
And madness, thou hast forged at last 
A nio-ht-lono- Present of the Past 

In which we went thro' summer France. 

Hadst thou such credit with the soul ? 
Then bring an opiate trebly strong, 
Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong 

That so my pleasure may be whole ; 

While now we talk as once we talk'd 

Of men and minds, the dust of change. 
The davs that orow to somethino- strancre. 

In walking as of old we walk'd 

Beside the river's wooded reach. 

The fortress, and the mountain ridge, 
The cataract flashing from the bridge, 

The breaker breaking on the beach. 

LXXI. 

RiSEST thou thus, dim dawn, again, 

And howlest, issuing out of night, 
With blasts that blow the poplar white, 

And lash with storm the streaming pane ? 

Day, when my crown'd estate begun 
To pine in that reverse of doom, 
Which sicken'd every living bloom. 

And blurr'd the splendor of the sun; 

Who usherest in the dolorous hour 

With thy quick tears that make the rose 
Pull sideways, and the daisy close 

Her crimson fringes to the shower ; 

Who might'st liave hcav'd a windless flame 
Up the deep East, or, wliispering, play'd 
A chequer-work of beam and shade 

Along the hills, yet look'd the same. 



344 IN MEMORIAM. 

As wan, as chill, as wild as now ; 

Day, mark'd as with some hideous crime, 
When the dark hand struck down thro' time, 

And cancell'd Nature's best : but thou. 

Lift as thou may'st thy burden'd brows 

Thro' clouds that drench the morning star. 
And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar, 

And sow the sky with flying boughs, 

And up thy vault with roaring sound 

Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day; 
Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray, 

And hide thy shame beneath the ground. 

LXXII. 

So many worlds, so much to do, 

So little done, such things to be. 
How know I what had need of thee, 

For thou wert strong as thou wert true ? 

The fame is quench'd that I foresaw, 

The head hath miss'd an earthly wreath : 
I curse not nature, no, nor death ; 

For nothing is that errs from law. 

We pass ; the path that each man trod 
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds : 
What fame is left for human deeds 

In endless age ? It rests with God. 

O hollow wraith of dying fame, 

Fade Avholly, while the soul exults. 
And self-enfolds the large results 

Of force that would have forged a name 

LXXIII. 

As sometimes in a dead man's face, 

To those that watch it more and more, 
A likeness, hardly seen before. 

Comes out — to some one of his race : 

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 

I see thee what thou ai't, and know 



LX MEMOEIAM. 345 

Thy likeness to the Avise below, 
Thy kiDclred Avith the great of old. 

But there Is more than I can see, 
And Avhat I see I leave unsaid. 
Nor speak it, knowing Death has made 

His darkness beautiful with thee. 

LXXIV. 

I LEA^TE thy praises unexpress'd 

In verse that brings myself relief, 

And by the measure of my grief 
I leave thy greatness to be guess'd ; 

What practice howsoe'er expert 

In fitting aptest words to things. 

Or voice the richest-toned that sings, 

Hath power to give thee as thou Avert ? 

I care not in these fading days 

To raise a cry that lasts not long, 

And round thee Avith the breeze of song 

To stir a little dust of praise. 

Thy leaf has perish'd in the green. 

And, Avhile we breathe beneath the sun. 
The Avorld Avhich credits Avliat is done 

Is cold to all that might have been. 

So here shall silence guard thy fame ; 

But somewhere, out of human view, 

Whate'er thy hands are set to do 
Is Avi'oufjht Avith tumult of acclaim. 



LXXV. 

Take wings of fancy, and ascend. 
And in a moment set thy face 
Where all the starry heavens of space 

Are sharpen'd to a needle's end ; 

Take Avings of foresight ; lighten thro' 
The secular abyss to come. 
And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb 

Before tlie mouldering of a yew ; 



346 IN MEMORIAM. 

And if the matin songs, that woke 
The darkness of our planet, last, 
Thine own shall wither in the vast. 

Ere half the lifetime of an oak. 

Ere these have clothed their branchy bowers 
With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain ; 
And Avhat are they when these remain 

Tlie ruin'd shells of hollow towers ? 

LXXVI. 

What hope is here for modern rhyme 
To him, who turns a musing eye 
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie 

Foreshorten'd in the tract of time ? 

These mortal lullabies of pain 

May bind a book, may line a box. 
May serve to curl a maiden's locks ; 

Or when a thousand moons shall wane 

A man upon a stall may find, 

And, passing, turn the page that tells 
A grief, then changed to something else, 

Sung by a long-forgotten mind. 

But what of that ? My darken'd ways 
Shall ring with music all the same ; 
To breathe my loss is more than fame, 

To utter love more sweet than praise. 




LXXVIL 

Again at Christmas did we weave 

The holly round the Christinas hearth 
The silent snow possess'd the earth, 

And calmly fell our Christmas-eve : 

The Aule-clog sparkled keen with frost, 
No wing of wind the region swept, 
But over all things brooding slept 

The quiet sense of something lost. 

As in the Avinters left behind, 

Again our ancient games had place, 
Th>i mimic picture's breathing grace, 

And dance and song and hoodman-blind. 

Who show'd a token of distress ? 

No single tear, no mark of pain : 
O sorrow, then can sorrow wane ? 

O grief, can grief be changed to less ? 

O last regret, regret can die ! 

No — mixt with all this mystic frame 
Her deep relations are the same. 

But with I0P.2; use her tears are drv. 



Lxxviir. 

" ^loRK than my brothers are to me " — 
Let this not vex thee, noble he;n-t I 
I know thee of what force thou art 

To hold the costliest love in fee. 



348 IN MKMORIAM. 

But thou and I are one in kind, 

As moulded like in Nature's mint ; 
And hill and wood and field did print 

The same sweet forms in either mind. 

For us the same cold streamlet curl'd 

Thro' all his eddying coves ; the same 
All winds that roam the twilight came 

In whispers of the beauteous world. 

At one dear knee we profFer'd vows, 

One lesson from one book we learn'd, 
Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet turn'd 

To black and brown on kindred brows. 

And so my wealth resembles thine, 

But he was rich where I was poor, 
And he supplied my want the more 

As his unlikeness fitted mine. 



LXXIX. 

If any vague desire should rise, 

That holy Death ere Arthur died 
Had moved me kindly from his side, 

And dropt the dust on tearless eyes ; 

Then fancy shapes, as fancy can. 

The grief my loss in him had wrought, 
A grief as deep as life or thought, 

But stay'd in peace with God and man. 

I make a picture in the brain ; 

I hear the sentence that he speaks ; 

He bears the burden of the weeks, 
But turns his burden into gain. 

His credit thus shall set me free ; 

And, influence-rich to soothe and save, 
Unused example from the grave 

Reach out dead hands to comfort me. 

LXXX. 

Could I have said while he was here 

" My love shall now no further range ; 



IN MEMOEIAM. 349 

There cannot come a mellower change, 
For now is love matm-e in ear." 

Love, then, had hope of richer store : 

What end is here to my complaint ? 
This haunting whisper makes me faint, 

" More yeai-s had made me love thee more." 

But Death returns an answer sweet : 

" My sudden frost was sudden gain. 
And gave all ripeness to the grain, 

It miffht have drawn from after-heat." 



LXXXI. 

I WAGE not any feud with Death 

For changes wrought on form and face 
No lower life that earth's embrace 

May breed with him, can fright my faith. 

Eternal process moving on. 

From state to state the spirit walks ; 

And these are but the shatter'd stalks. 
Or ruin'd chrysalis of one. 

Nor blame I Death, because he bare 
Tlie use of virtue out of earth : 
I know transplanted human worth 

Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. 

For this alone on Death I wreak 

The wrath that garners in my heart ; 
He put our lives so far apart 

We cannot hear each other speak. 

LXXXII. 

Dip down upon the northern shore, 

O sweet new-year delaying long ; 
Thou doest expectant nature wrong ; 

Delaying long, delay no more. 

What stays thee irom the clouded noons, 
Thy sweetness from its proper place ? 
Can trouble live with April days, 

Or sadness in the summer moons? 



350 IN MEMORIAM, 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, 
The httle speedwell's darling blue, 
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew, 

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 

thou, new-year, delaying long, 

Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 
That longs to burst a frozen bud. 
And flood a fresher throat with song. 

LXXXIII. 

When I contemplate all alone 

The life that had been thine below. 
And fix my thoughts on all the glow 

To which thy crescent would have grown ; 

1 see thee sitting crown'd with good, 

A central warmth diffusing bliss 
In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss, 
On all the branches of thy blood ; 

Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine ; 
For now the day was drawing on, 
When thou should'st link thy life with one 

Of mine own house, and boys of thine 

Had babbled " Uncle " on my knee ; 
But that remorseless iron hour 
Made cyj)ress of her orange-flower, 

Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. 

I seem to meet their least- desire, 

To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. 
I see their unborn faces shine 

Beside the never-lighted fire. 

I see myself an honor'd guest, 

Thy partner in the flowery walk 
Of letters, genial table-talk. 

Or deep dispute, and gracefiil jest ; 

While now thy prosperous labor fills 

The lips of men with honest praise, 
And sun by sun the happy days 

Descend below the eolden hills 



i]s^ MEMORiA:\r. 351 

With promise of a morn as fair ; 

And all the train of bounteous hours 
Conduct by paths of growing powers, 

To reverence and the silver hair ; 

Till slowh' worn her earthly robe, 

Her lavish mission richly wrought, 
Leaving great legacies of thouoht, 

Thy spirit should fail from off the globe ; 

What time mine own might also flee, 

As link'd with thine in love and fate, 
And, hovering o'er the dolorous strait 

To the other shore, involved in thee, 

AiTive at last tlie blessed goal, 

And He that died in Holy Land 
Would reach us out the shining hand. 

And take us as a single soid. 

What reed was that on vdiich I leant ? 

Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake 
The old bitterness again, and break 

The loAV beginnino-s of content. 

LXXXIV. 

This truth came borne with bier and pall, 
I felt it, when I sorrow'd most, 
'T is better to have loved and lost. 

Than never to have loved at all 

O true in w^ord, and tried in deed. 
Demanding, so to bring relief 
To this Avhich is our common grief. 

'What kind of life is that I lead ; 

And whether trust in things above 

Be dimra'd of sorrow, or sustained ; 
And whether love for him have drain'd 

My capabilities of love ; 

Your words liave virtue such as draws 
A faithful answer from the breast. 
Thro' liglit reproaches, half exprest. 

And loyal unto kindly laws. 



352 IN MEMORIAM. 

My blood an even tenor kept, 

Till on mine ear this message falls, 
That in Vienna's fatal walls 

God's finger touch'd, him, and he slept. 

The great Intelligences fair 

That range above our mortal state, 
In circle round the blessed gate, 

Received and gave him welcome there ; 

And led him thro' the blissful climes. 

And show'd him in the fountain fresh 
All knowledge that the sons of flesh 

Shall gather in the cycled times. 

But I remained, whose hopes were dim. 

Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth, 
To wander on a darken'd earth, 

Where all things round me breathed of him. 

O friendship, equal-poised control, 

O heart with kindliest motion warm, 

sacred essence, other form, 
O solemn ghost, O crowned soul ! 

Yet none could better know than I, 

How much of act at human hands 
The sense of human will demands 

By which we dare to live or die. 

Whatever way my days decline, 

1 felt and feel, tho' left alone, 
His being working in mine own. 

The footsteps of his life in mine ; 

A hfe that all the Muses deck'd 

With gifts of grace, that might express 
All-comprehensive tenderness, 

All-subtilizing intellect : 

And so my passion hath not swerved 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind. 

And in my grief a strength reserved. 



IN MEMORIAM. 353 

Likewise the imaginative woe, 

That loved to handle spiritual strife, 
Dirtused the shock thro' all my life, 

But in the present broke the blow. 

My pulses therefore beat again 

For other friends that once I met ; 
Nor can it suit me to forget 

The mighty hopes that make us men. 

I woo your love : I count it crime 

To mourn for any overmuch ; 

I, that divided half of such 
A friendship as had master'd Time ; 

Which mastei-s Time indeed, and is 
Eternal, separate from fears : 
The all-assuming months and years 

Can take no part away from this : 

But Summer on the steaming floods, 

And Spring that swells the narrow brooks. 
And Autumn, with a noise of rooks. 

That gather in the waning Avoods, 

And every pulse of wind and wave 

Recalls, in change of light or gloom, 
My old affection of the tomb, 

And my prime passion in the grave : 

My old affection of the tomb, 

A part of stillness, yearns to speak : 
"Arise, and get thee forth and seek 

A friendship for the years to come. 

I watch thee from the quiet shore ; 

Thy spirit up to mine can reach ; 

But in dear words of human speech 
We two communicate no more." 

And I, " Can clouds of nature stain 

The starry clearness of the free ? 

How is it ? Canst thou feel for me 
Some painless sympathy with pain ? " 
23 



354 IN MEMORIAM. 

And liglitly does tlie whisper fall ; 

" 'T is hard for thee to fathom this ; 

I triumph in conclusive bliss, 
And that serene result of all." 

So hold I commerce with the dead ; 

Or so methinks the dead would say ; 

Or so shall grief with symbols play, 
And pining life be fancy-fed. 

Now looking to some settled end, 

That tbese things pass, and I shall prove 
A meeting somewhere, love with love, 

I crave your pardon, O my friend ; 

If not so fresh, with love as true, 
I, clasping brother-hands, aver 
I could not, if I would, transfer 

The whole I felt for him to you. 

For which be they that hold apart 

The promise of the golden hours ? 
First love, first friendship, equal powers, 

That marry with the virgin heart. 

Still mine, that cannot but deplore. 

That beats within a lonely place, 
That yet remembers his embrace, 

But at his footstep leaps no more, 

My heart, tho' widow'd, may not rest 
Quite in the love of what is gone. 
But seeks to beat in time with one 

That warms another living breast. 

Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, 

Knowing the primrose yet is dear, 
The primrose of the later year, 

As not unlike to that of Spring. 

LXXXV. 

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air. 

That rollest from the gorgeous gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 



IN MEMORIAM. 355 

The round of space, and rapt below 
Thro' all the dewy-tassell'd wood, 
And shadowing- down the horned flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 

The full new life that feeds thy breath 
Througliout my frame, till Doubt and Death, 

HI brethi*en, let the fancy fly. 

From belt to belt of crimson seas 

On leagues of odor streaming far, 
To where in yonder orient star 

A hundred spirits whisper " Peace." 

LXXXVL 
I PAST beside the reverend walls 

In which of old I wore the gown ; 

I roved at random thro' the town, 
And saw the tumult of the halls ; 

And heard once more in college fanes 

The storm their high-built organs make, 
An(] thunder-music, rolling, shake 

The prophets blazon'd on the panes ; 

And caught once more the distant shout, 
The measured pulse of racing oars 
Among the ^villows ; paced the shores 

And many a bridge, and all about 

The same gray flats again, and felt 

The same, but not the same ; and last 
Up that long walk of limes I past 

To see the rooms in which he dwelt. 

Another name was on the door : 

I linger'd ; all within was noise 

Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys 

That crash'd the glass and beat the floor; 

Where once we held debate, a band 

Of youthful friends, on mind and art, 
And labor, and the changing mart. 

And all the framework of the land ; 



356 IN MEMORIAM. 

When one Avould aim an arrow fair, 

But send it slacklj from the string; 
And one would pierce an outer ring, 

And one an inner, here and there ; 

And last the master-bowman, he. 

Would cleave the mark. A willing ear 
We lent him. Who, but hung to hear 

The rapt oration flowing free 

From point to point, with power and grace 
And music in the bounds of law, 
To those conclusions when we saw 

The God within him light his face, 

And seem to lift the form, and glow 
In azure orbits heavenly-wise ; 
And over those ethereal eyes 

The bar of Michael Angelo. 

LXXXVII. 

Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, 
Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks, 

tell me where the senses mix, 
O tell me where the passions meet, 

Whence radiate : fierce extremes employ 
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, 
And in the midmost heart of grief 

Thy passion clasps a secret joy : 

An(J I — my harp would prelude woe — 

1 cannot all command the strings ; 
The glory of the sum of things 

Will flash along the chords and go. 

LXXXVIII. 

Witch-elms that counterchange the floor 
Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright ; 
And thou, with all thy breadth and height 

Of foliage, towering sycamore ; 

How often, hither wandering down. 

My Arthur found your shadows fair, 



IN MEMORIAM. 357 

And shook to all the liberal air 
The dust and din and steam of town : 

He brought an e}'e for all he saw ; 

He mixt in all our simple sports ; 

The}' pleased him, fresh from brawling courts 
And dusty purlieus of the law. 

O joy to him In this retreat, 

Immantled in ambrosial dark, 
To drink the cooler air, and mark 

The landscape Avinklng thro' the heat : 

O sound to rout the brood of cares, 

The sweep of scythe in morning dew, 
The gust that round the garden flew, 

And tumbled half the mellowing pears ! 

O bliss, when all in circle drawn 

About him, heart and ear were fed 
To hear him, as he lay and read 

The Tuscan poets on the lawn : 

Or in the all-golden afternoon 

A guest, or happy sister, sung. 

Or here she brought the harp and flung 

A ballad to the briohtenlng moon : 

Nor less it pleased in livelier moods. 

Beyond the bounding hill to stray. 
And break the livelong sunnner day 

With banquet in the distant woods ; 

Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, 
Discuss'd the books to love or hate, 
Or touch'd the changes of the state. 

Or threaded some Socratic dream ; 

But if I praised the busy town, 

He loved to rail against it still, 
For " ground in yonder social mill 

We rub each other's angles down. 

And merge," he said, " in form and gloss 
The picturesque of man and man." 



358 IN MEMORIAM. 

We talk'd : the stream beneatli us ran 
The wine-flask lying coucli'd in moss, 

Or cool'd within the glooming wave ; 
And last, returning from afar. 
Before the crimson-circled star 

Had fall'n into her father's grave, 

And brushing ankle-deep in flowers. 

We heard behind the woodbine veil 
The milk that bubbled in the pail, 

And buzzings of the honied hours. 



LXXXIX. 

He tasted love with half his mind, 

Nor ever drank the inviolate spring 
Where nighest heaven, who first could fling 

This bitter seed among mankind ; 

That could the dead, whose dying eyes 

Were closed Avith wail, resume their life, 
They would but find in child and wife 

An iron welcome when they rise : 

'T was well, indeed, when warm with wine, 
To pledge them with a kindly tear. 
To talk them o'er, to wish them here, 

To count their memories half divine ; 

But if they came who past away, 

Behold their brides in other hands ; 
The hard heir strides about their lands, 

And will not yield them for a day. 

Yea, tho' their sons were none of these, 

Not less the yet-loved sire Avould make 
Confusion worse than death, and shake 

Q^he pillars of domestic peace. 

Ah dear, but come thou back to me : 

Whatever change the years have wrought, 
I find not yet one lonely thought 

That cries against my wish for thee. 



IN MEMORIAM. 359 

XC. 

Whex rosy plumelets tuft the lareli, 

And rarel}- j^ipes the mounted thrush ; 
Or underneath the barren bush 

Flits by the sea-blue bird of March ; 

Come, wear the form by which I know 
Thy spirit in time among thy peers ; 
The hope of unaccomplish'd years 

Be large and lucid round thy brow. 

When summer's hourly-mellowing change 
May breathe, with many roses sweet, 
Upon the thousand waves of wheat, 

That ripple round the lonely grange ; 

Come : not in watches of the night, 

But where the sunbeam broodeth warm, 
Come, beauteous in thine after form, 

And Uke a finer light in light. 

XCI. 
If any vision should reveal 

Thy likeness, I might count it vain 

As but the canker of the brain ; 
Yea, tho' it spake and made appeal 

To chances Avhere our lots were cast 

Together in the days behind, 

I might but say, I hear a wind 
Of memory murmuring the past. 

Yea, tho' it spake and bared to view 

A fact within the coming year ; 

And tho' the months, revolving near, 
Should prove the phantom-warning true, 

They might not seem thy prophecies, 

But spiritual presentiments, 

And such refraction of events 
As often rises ere they rise. 

XCII. 
I SHALL not see thee. Dare I say 
No spirit ever brake the band 



360 IN MEMORIAM. 

That stays him from the native land, 
Where first he walk'd when claspt in clay ? 

No visual shade of some one lost, 

But he, the Spirit himself, may come 
Where all the nerve of sense is numb; 

Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. 

O, therefore from thy sightless range 
With gods in unconjectured bliss, 
O, from the distance of the abyss 

Of tenfold-complicated change, 

Descend, and touch, and enter ; hear 

The wish too strong for words to name ; 
That in this blindness of the frame 

My Ghost may feel that thine is near. 

XCIII. 

How pure at heart and sound in head, 
With what divine affections bold 
Should be the man whose thought would hold 

An hour's communion with the dead. 

In vain shalt thou, or any, call 

The spirits from their golden day, 
Except, like them, thou too canst say, 

My spirit is at peace with all. 

They haunt the silence of the breast, 
Imaginations calm and fair. 
The memory like a cloudless air, 

The conscience as a sea at rest : 

But when the heart is full of din, 

And doubt beside the portal waits, 
They can but listen at the gates. 

And hear the household jar within. 

XCIV. 

By night we linger'd on the lawn, 

For underfoot the herb was dry ; 
And genial warmth ; and o'er the sky 

The silvery haze of summer drawn ; 



IX MEMORTAM. 361 

And calm that let the tapei-s burn 

Unwavering : not a cricket chirr'd : 
Tlie brook alone far-off' was heard, 

And on the board the fluttering urn : 

And bats went round in fi-agrant skies, 
And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes 
That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes 

And woolly breasts and beaded eyes ; 

"While noAv we sang old songs that peal'd 

From knoll to knoll, where, couch'd at ease, 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees 

Laid their dark arms about the field. 

But when those others, one by one, 

Withdrew themselves fi-om me and night, 
And in the house light after light 

Went out, and I was all alone, 

A hunger seized my heart ; I read 

Of that glad year which once had been. 
In those fall'n leaves wliich kept their green, 

The noble letters of the dead : 

And strangely on the silence broke 

The silent-speaking words, and strange 
Was love's dumb cry defying change 

To test his worth ; and strangely spoke 

The faith, the vigor, bold to dwell 

On doubts that drive the coward back, 
And keen thro' wordy snares to track 

Suggestion to her inmost cell. 

So word by word, and line by line. 

The dead man touch'd me from the past. 
And all at once it seem'd at last 

His living soul was flash'd on mine, 

And mine in his was wound, and Avhirl'd 
About empyreal heights of thought, 
And came on tliat which is, and caught 

The deep pulsations of the world, 



• 62 IN MEMORIAM. 

JEonian music measuring out 

Tlie steps of Time — the shocks of Chance — 
The blows of Death. At length my trance 

Was cancell'd, stricken thro' with doubt. 

Vague words! but ah, how hard to frame 
In matter-moulded forms of speech, 
Or ev'n for intellect to reach 

Thro' memory that which I became : 

Till now the doubtful dusk reveal'd 

The knolls once more where, couch'd at ease, 
The white klne glimmer'd, and the trees 

Laid their dark arms about the field : 

And suck'd from out the distant gloom 
A breeze began to tremble o'er 
The large leaves of the sycamore, 

And fluctuate all the still perfume, 

And gathering freshlicr overhead, 

Rock'd the full-follao;ed elms, and swunof 
The heavy-folded rose, and flung 

The lilies to and fro, and said 

" The dawn, the dawn," and died away ; 

And East and West, without a breath, 
Mlxt their dim lights, like life and death, 

To broaden into boundless day. 

XCV. 

You say, but with no touch of scorn, 

Sweet-hearted, you, wliose light-blue eyes 
Are tender over drowning flies. 

You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 

I know not : one indeed I knew 

In many a subtle question versed. 
Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first, 

But ever strove to make It true : 

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, 

At last he beat his music out. 

There lives more faith In honest doubt. 
Believe me, than In half the creeds. 



Hs MEMOKIAM. 363 

He fought his doubts and gather'd strength, 
He would not make his judgment blind, 
He faced the spectres of tlie mind 

And laid them : thus he came at length 

To find a stronger faith his own ; 

And Power was with him in the night, 
AVhich makes the darkness and the light. 

And dwells not in the light alone, 

But in the darkness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old. 
While Israel made their gods of gold, 

Altho' the trumpet blew so loud. 

XCVI 

Mt love has talk'd with rocks and trees ; 
He finds on misty mountain-ground 
His OAvn vast shadow glory-crown'd ; 

He sees himself in all he sees. 

Two partners of a married life — 

I look'd on these and thought of thee 
In vastness and in mystery. 

And of ni}- spirit as of a wife. 

These two — they dwelt with eye on eye, 
: Their hearts of old have beat in tune, 
Their meetings made December June, 
Their every parting was to die. 

Their love has never past away ; 
The days she never can forget 
Are earnest that he loves her yet, 

Whate'er the faithless people say. 

Her life is lone, he sits apart, 

He loves her yet, she Avill not weep, 
Tho' rapt in matters dark and deep 

He seems to slight her simple heart. 

He thrids the labyrinth of the mind, 

He reads the secret of the star, 

He seems so near and yet so far. 
He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. 



364 IN MEMOEIAM. 

She keeps the gift of years before, 
A wither'd violet is her bliss : 
She knows not what his greatness is; 

For that, for all, she loves him more. 

For him she plays, to him she sings 

Of early faith and plighted vows ; 
She knows but matters of the house, 

And he, he knows a thousand things. 

Her faith is fixt and cannot move. 

She darkly feels him great and wise. 
She dwells on him with faithful eyes, 

" I cannot understand : I love." 

XCVII. 

You leave us : you will see the Rhine, 
And those fair hills I sail'd below. 
When I was there with him; and go 

By summer belts of wheat and vine 

To where he breathed his latest breath. 
That City. All her splendor seems 
No livelier than the wisp that gleams 

On Lethe in the eyes of Death. 

Let her great Danube rolling fair 

Enwind her isles, unmark'd of me : 
I have not seen, I will not see 

Vienna ; rather dream that there, 

A treble darkness, Evil haunts 

The birth, the bridal ; friend from friend 
Is oftener parted, fathers bend 

Above more graves, a thousand wants 

Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey 

By each cold hearth, and sadness flings 
Her shadow on the blaze of kings : 

And yet mj-self have heard him say, 

That not in any mother town 

With statelier progress to and fro 
The double tides of chariots flow 

By park and suburb under brown 



IX MEMORIAM. JuO 

Of lustier leaves ; nor more content, 
He told me, lives in any crowd. 
When all is gay Avith lamps, and loud 

With sport and song, in booth and tent, 

Imperial halls, or open plain ; 

And wheels the circled dance, and breaks 

The rocket molten into flakes 
Of crimson or in emerald rain. 

XCVIII. 

RiSEST thou thus, dim dawn, again, 
So loud Avith voices of the birds, 
So thick AAdth loAvings of the herds, 

Day, when I lost the flower of men ; 

Who tremblest thro' thy darkling red 

On yon swoll'n brook that bubbles fast 
By meadows breathing of the past, 

And woodlands holy to the dead ; 

Who raurmurest in the foliaged eaves 

A song that slights the coming care, 
And Autumn laying here and there 

A fiery finger on the leaves ; 

Who wakenest Avith thy balmy breath 

To myriads on the genial earth, 

Memories of bridal, or of birth. 
And unto myriads more, of death. 

Avheresoever those may be, 

BetAvixt the slumber of the poles, 
To-day they count as kindred souls ; 
They knoAv me not, but mourn Avith me. 

XCIX. 

1 CLIMB the hill : from end to end 

Of all the landscape underneath, 
I find no place that does not breathe 
Some gracious memory of my friend ; 

No gray old grange, or lonely fold. 

Or loAv morass and Avhispering reed, 
Or simple stile from mead to mead, 

Or sheepAvalk up the Avindy wold ; 



366 



IN MEMOEIAM. 

Nor lioary knoll of asli and haw 

That hears the latest linnet trill, 
Nor quarry trench'd along the hill, 

And haunted by the wrangling daw ; 

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock ; 

Nor ]3astoral I'ivulet that swerves 

To left and right thro' meadowy curves, 

That feed the mothers of the flock ; 

But each has pleased a kindred eye, 
And each reflects a kindlier day ; 
And, leaving these, to pass away, 

I think once more he seems to die. 

C. 

Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway, 
The tender blossom flutter down, 
Unloved, that beech will gather brown, 

This maple burn itself away ; 

Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, 

Kay round with flames her disk of seed, 
And many a rose-carnation feed 

With summer spice the humming air ; 

Unloved, by many a sandy bar. 

The brook shall babble down the plain. 
At noon or when the lesser wain 

Is twisting round the j)olar star ; 

Uncared for, gird the windy grove, 

And flood the haunts of hern and crake ;' 

Or into silver arrows break 
The sailing moon in creek and cove ; 

Till from the garden and the wild 

A fresh association blow. 

And year by year the landscape grow 
Familiar to the stranger's child ; 

As year by year the laborer tills 

His wonted glebe, or lops the glades ; 
And year by year our memory fades 

From all the circle of the hills. 



IN MEMORIAM. 367 

CI. 

AVe leave the well-beloved place 

AVliere fii-st we gazed upon the sky ; 
The roofs, that heard our earliest cry, 

Will shelter one of stranger race. 



As down the garden-walks I move. 
Two spirits of a diveree love 
Contend lor lovino- masterdom. 



One whispei-s, here thy boyhood sung 

Long since its matin song, and heard 
The low love-language of the bird 

In Hiitive hazels tassel-hung. 

The other answers, " Yea, but here 

Thy feet have stray'd in after hours 
With thy lost friend among the bowers. 

And this hath made them trebly dear." 

Tliese two have striven half the day, 

And each prefers his separate claim, 
Poor rivals in a losing game. 

That will not yield each other way. 

I turn to go : my feet are set 

To leave the pleasant fields and farms ; 

They mix in one another's arms 
To one pure image of regret. 




CII. 

On that last night before we went 

From out the doors where I was bred, 
I dream'd a vision of the dead, 

Which left my after-morn content. 

Methought I dwelt within a hall, 

And maidens with me : distant hills 
From hidden summits fed with rills 

A river sliding by the wall. 

The hall with harp and carol rang. 

They sang of what is wise and good 
And graceful. In the centre stood 

A statue veil'd, to which they sang ; 

And which, tlio' veil'd, was known to me. 
The shape of him I loved, and love 
Forever : then flew In a dove 

And brought a summons from the sea : ' 

And when they learnt that I must go 

They wept and wail'd, but led the way 
To where a little shallop lay 

At anchor In the flood below ; 

And on by many a level mead, 

And shadowing bluff" that made the banks, 
We glided winding under ranks 

Of iris, and the golden reed ; 

And still as vaster grew the shore. 

And roll'd the floods In grander space, 



IN mp:moriam. 361) 

Tlie maidens gatlier'd strength and grace 
And presence, lordlier than before ; 

And I myself, who sat apart 

And watch'd them, wax'd in every limb ; 

I felt the thews of Anakim, 
The pulses of a Titan's heart ; 

As one would sing the death of war. 
And one would chant the history 
Of that great race, which is to be, 

And one the shaping of a star ; 

Until the forward-creeping tides 

Began to foam, and we to draw 
From deep to deep, to where we saw 

A great ship lift her shining sides. 

The man we loved was there on deck. 
But thrice as large as man he bent 
To greet us. Up the side I went, 

And fell in silence on his neck : 

Whereat those maidens with one mind 

Bewail'd their lot ; I did them wrong : 

" We served thee here," they said, " so long, 

And wilt thou leave us now behind ? " 

So rapt I was, they could not win 

An answer from my lips, but he 

Replying, " Enter likewise ye 
And go with us : " they enter'd in. 

And while the wind began to sweep 
A music out of sheet and shroud, 
We steer'd her toward a crimson cloud 

That landlike slept along the deep. 

cm. 

The time draws near the birth of Christ ; 

The moon is hid, the night is still ; 

A single church below the hill 
Is pealing, folded in the mist. 

A single peal of bells below, 

That wakens at this hour of rest 
24 



370 IN MEMORIAM. 

A single murmur in the breast, 
That these are not the bells I know. 

Like strangers' voices here they sound, 

In lands where not a memory strays, 
Nor landmark breathes of other days, 

But all is new unhallow'd o-round. 



CIV. 

To-night ungather'd let us leave 

This laurel, let this holly stand : 
We live within the stranger's land, 

And strangely falls the Christmas-eve. 

Our father's dust is left alone 

And silent under other snows : 

There in due time the woodbine blows, 

The violet comes, but we are gone. 

No more shall wayward grief abuse 

The genial hour with mask and mime ; 
For change of place, like growth of time, 

Has broke the bond of dying use. 

Let cares that petty shadows cast. 

By which our lives are chiefly proved, 
A little spare the night I loved. 

And hold it solemn to the past. 

But let no footstep beat the floor, 

Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm ; 
For who would keep an ancient form 

Thro' which the spirit breathes no more ? 

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast ; 

Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown ; 

No dance, no motion, save alone 
What lightens in the lucid east 

Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 

Long sleeps the summer in the seed ; 

Bun out your measured arcs, and lead 
The closing cycle rich in good. 



I 



IN MEMORIAM. 371 

CV. 

Ring out wild bells to the wild sky, 

Tlie flying cloud, the frosty light : 

The year is dying in the night ; 
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 

Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 

For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 

And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 

The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood. 

The civic slander and the spite; 

Ring in the love of truth and right, 
Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old, 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 

The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

CVI. 

It is the day when he was bom, 

A bitter day that early sank 

Behind a purple-frosty bank 
Of vapor, leaving night forlorn. 



372 EST MEMORIAM. 

The time admits not flowers or leaves 

To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies 
The blast of North and East, and ice 

Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves, 

And bristles all the brakes and thorns 
To yon hard crescent, as she liangs 
Above the wood which grides and clangs 

Its leafless ribs and iron horns 

Together, in the drifts that pass 

To darken on the rolling brine 

That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, 

Arrange the board and brim the glass ; 

Bring in great logs and let them lie, 
To make a solid core of heat ; 
Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat 

Of all things ev'n as he were by ; 

We keep the day. With festal cheer. 
With books and music, surely we 
Will drink to him, Avhate'er he be, 

And sing the songs he loved to hear. 

CVII. 

I WILL not shut me from my kind, 
And, lest I stifien into stone, 
I will not eat my heart alone. 

Nor feed with sighs a passing wind : 

What profit lies in barren faith, 

And vacant yearning, tho' with might 
To scale the heaven's highest height, 

Or dive below the wells of Death ? 

"What find I in the highest place, 

But mine own phantom chanting hymns ? 
And on the depths of death there swims 

The reflex of a human face. 

I '11 rather take what fi-uit may be 
Of sorrow under human skies : 
'T is held that sorrow makes us wise, 

Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. 



LN MEMORIAM. 373 

CVIII. 

Heart-affluence in discursive talk 

From liouseliold fountains never dry ; 
The critic clearness of an eye, 

That saw thro' all the Muses' walk ; 

Seraphic intellect and force 

To seize and throw the doubts of man ; 

Impassion'd logic, which outran 
The hearer in its fiery course ; 

High nature amorous of the good, 

But touch'd with no ascetic gloom ; 
And passion pure in snowy bloom 

Thro' all the years of April blood ; 

A love of freedom rarely felt, 

Of fi*eedom in her regal seat 

Of England ; not the schoolboy heat, 

The blind hysterics of the Celt ; 

And manhood fused with female grace 

In such a sort, the child would twine 
A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine, 

And find his comfort in thy face ; 

All these have been, and thee mine eyes 

Have look'd on : if they look'd in vain, 
My shame is greater who remain. 

Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 

CIX. 

Thy converse drew us with delight, 

The men of rathe and riper years : 
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears. 

Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 

On thee the loyal-hearted hung. 

The proud was half disarmed of pride, 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 

To flicker with his double tongue. 

The stern Avere mild when thou wert by, 
The flippant put himself to school 
And heard thee, and the brazen fool 

Was soften'd, and he knew not why; 



374 m MEMORIAM. 

While I, thy dearest, set apart, 

And felt thy triumph was as mine ; 

And loved them more, that they were thine, 

The graceful tact, the Christian art ; 

Nor mine the sweetness or the skill. 

But mine the love that will not tire, 
.And, born of love, the vague desire 

That spurs an imitative will. 

ex. 

The churl in spirit, up or down 

Along the scale of ranks, thro' all, 
To him that grasps a golden ball, 

By blood a king, at heart a clown ; 

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil 

His want in forms for fashion sake, 
Will let his coltish nature break 

At seasons thro' the gilded pale : 

For who can always act ? but he, 

To whom a thousand memories call, 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seem'd to be. 

Best seem'd the thing he was, and join'd 
Each office of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the flower 

And native growth of noble mind ; 

Nor ever narrowness or spite. 

Or villain fancy fleeting by. 
Drew in the expression of an eye, 

Where God and Nature met in light ; 

And thus he bore without abuse 

The grand old name of gentleman. 
Defamed by every charlatan. 

And soil'd with all ignoble use. 

CXI. 
High wisdom holds my wisdom less. 

That I, who gaze with temperate eyes 

On glorious insufficiencies, 
Set light by narrower perfectness. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

But thou, that fiUest all the room 

Of all my love, art reason why 
I seem to cast a careless eye 

On souls, the lesser lords of doom. 

For what wert thou ? some novel power 
Sprang up forever at a touch, 
And hope could never hope too much, 

In watching thee from hour to hour. 

Large elements In order brought, 

And tracts of calm from tempest made, 
And Avorld-wide fluctuation sway'd 

In vassal tides that follow'd thought. 

CXII. 

'T IS held that sorrow makes us wise ; 

Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee 
Which not alone had guided me, 

But served the seasons that may rise ; 

For can I doubt, who knew thee keen 
In intellect, with force and skill 
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil — 

I doubt not what thou wouldst have been : 

A life of civic action warm, 

A soul on highest mission sent, 
A potent voice of Parliament, 

A pillar steadfast in the storm, 

Should licensed boldness gather force, 
Becoming, when the time has birth, 
A lever to uplift the earth 

And roll it in another course, 

With thousand shocks that come and go. 
With agonies, with energies, 
AVith overthrowings, and with cries. 

And undulations to and fro. 

CXIII. 

Who loves not Knowledge ? Who shall rail 
Against her beauty ? May she mix 
AVith men and prosper ! Who shall fix 

Her pillars ? Let her work prevail. 



375 



376 IN MEMORIAM. 

But on her forehead sits a fire : 

She sets her forward countenance 
And leaps into the future chance, 

Submitting all things to desire. 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain — 
She cannot fight the fear of death. 
What is she, cut from love and faith, 

But some wild Pallas from the brain 

Of demons ? fiery-hot to burst 

All barriers in her onward race 

For power. Let her know her place ; 

She is the second, not the first. 

A higher hand must make her mild, 
If all be not in vain ; and guide 
Her footsteps, moving side by side 

With wisdom, like the younger child : 

For she is earthly of the mind. 

But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. 
O fi'iend, who earnest to thy goal 

So early, leaving me behind, 

I would the great world grew like thee, 
Who grewest not alone in power 
And knowledge, but by year and hour 

In reverence and in charity. 

CXIV. 

Now fades the last long streak of snow, 
Now burgeons every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares, and thick 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the Avoodland loud and long, 
The distance takes a lovelier hue. 
And drown'd in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea. 

The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
And milkier every milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea ; 



IN jviemoriam. 377 

Where now tlie sea-mew pipes, or dives 
In yonder greening gleam, and ily 
The happy bu-ds, that change their sky 

To biuld and brood ; that live their lives 

From land to land ; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too ; and my regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

cxv. 

Is it, then, regret for buried time 

That keenlier in sweet April wakes. 
And meets the year, and gives and takes 

The colors of the crescent prime ? 

Not all : the songs, the stirring air, 
The life re-orient out of dust, 
Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust 

In that wliich made the world so fair. 

Not all regret : the face will shine 

Upon me, while I muse alone ; 

And that dear voice, I once have known, 
Still speak to me of me and mine : 

Yet less of sorrow lives in me 

For days of happy commune dead ; 
Less yearning for the friendship fled, 

Than some strong bond which is to be. 

CXVI. 
O DAYS and hours, your work is this, 

To hold me from my proper place, 

A little while from his embrace, 
For fuller gain of after bliss : 

That out of distance might ensue 

Desire of nearness doubly sweet ; 

And unto meeting when we meet. 
Delight a hundredfold accrue, 

For every gi-ain of sand that runs. 

And every span of shade that steals, 
And every kiss of toothed wheels. 

And all the. courses of the suns. 



378 IN MEMORIAM. 

CXVII. 

Contemplate all this work of Time, 
The giant laboring in his youth ; 
Nor dream of human love and truth, 

As dying Nature's earth and lime ; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are breathers of an ampler day 
Forever nobler ends. They say, 

The solid earth whereon we tread 

In tracts of fluent heat began, 

And grew to seeming-random forms. 
The seeming prey of cyclic storms, 

Till at the last arose the man ; 

Who throve and branch'd from clime to clime, 
The herald of a higher race, 
And of himself in higher place. 

If so he type this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more ; 

Or, crown 'd with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and show- 
That life is not as idle ore. 

But iron dug from central gloom, 

And heated hot with burning fears, 
And dipt in baths of hissing tears, 

And batter'd with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 

The reeling Faun, the sensual feast ; 
Move upward, working out the beast, 

And let the ape and tiger die. 

CXYIII. 

Doors, Avhere my heart was used to beat 
So quickly, not as one that weeps 
I come once more ; the city sleeps ; 

I smell the meadow in the street ; 

I hear a chirp of birds ; I see 

Betwixt the black fronts long withdrawn 



EST MEMORIAM. 

A Ught-blue lane of early dawn, 
And think of early days and thee, 

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland 

And bright the friendship of thine eye ; 
And in uiy thoughts with scarce a sigh 

I take the pressure of thine hand. 

CXIX. 

I TRUST I have not wasted breath : 
I think we are not Avholly brain, 
Magnetic mockeries ; not in vain, 

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death; 

Not only cunning casts in clay : 

Let Science prove Ave are, and then 
What matters Science unto men. 

At least to me ? I would not stay. 

Let him, the wiser man who springs 

Hereafter, up from childhood shape 
His action like the greater ape. 

But I was born to other things. 

cxx. 

Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun 

And ready, thou, to die with him, 
Thou watchest all things ever dim 

And dimmer, and a glory done : 

The team is loosen'd from the wain. 

The boat is drawn upon the shore ; 
Thou listenest to the closing door, 

And life is darken'd in the brain. 

Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night, 

By thee the world's great work is heard 
Beginning, and the Avakeful bird ; 

Behind thee comes the greater light : 

The market-boat is on the stream. 

And voices hail it from the brink ; 
Thou hcar'st the village-hammer clink, 

And seest the movinn- of the team. 



379 



380 IN MEMORIAM. 

Sweet Hesper-Phosplior, double name 
For what is one, the first, the last, 
Thou, like my present and my past, 

Thy place is changed ; thou art the same. 

CXXI. 

Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then. 
While I rose up against my doom, 
And yearn'd to burst the folded gloom, 

To bare the eternal Heavens again, 

To feel once more, in placid awe. 
The strong imagination roll 
A sjohere of stars about my soul. 

In all her motion one with law ; 

If thou wert with me, and the grave 
Divide us not, be with me now. 
And enter in at breast and brow. 

Till all my blood, a fuller wave. 

Be quicken'd with a livelier breath. 
And like an inconsiderate boy. 
As in the former flash of joy, 

I slip the thoughts of life and death ; 

And all the breeze of Fancy blows. 

And every dew-drop paints a bow, 
' The wizard lightnings deeply glow, 
And every thought breaks out a rose. 

CXXII. 

There rolls the deep where grew the tree. 

O earth, what changes hast thou seen ! 

There where the long street roars, hath been 
The stillness of the central sea. 

The hills are shadows, and they flow 

From form to form, and nothing stands ; 
They melt like mist, the solid lands. 

Like clouds they shape themselves and go. 

But in my spirit will I dwell, 

And dream my dream, and hold it true ; 

For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, 
I cannot think the thinsi; farewell. 



IN MEMORIAM. 381 

CXXIII. 
That which we dare invoke to bless ; 

Our dearest faith ; oiu- ghastliest doubt ; 

He, They, One, All ; within, without ; 
The Power in darkness whom we guess ; 

I found Him not In world or sun, 

Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye ; 

Nor thro' the (pestions men may try, 
The petty cobwebs we have spun : 

If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep, 

I heard a voice, ■■' Believe no more," 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled in the Godless deep ; 

A warmth within the breast would melt 
The fi^eezing reason's colder part. 
And like a man in wrath the heart 

Stood up and answer'd, " I have felt." 

No, like a child in doubt and fear : 

But that blind clamor made me wise ; 
Then was I as a child that cries, 

But, crying, knows his father near; 

And what I am beheld again 

What is, and no man understands ; 
And out of darkness came the hands 

That reach thro' nature, moulding men. 

CXXIV. 

Whatever I have said or sung. 

Some bitter notes my harp would give, 
Yea, tho' there often seem'd to live 

A contradiction on the tongue, 

Yet Hope had never lost her youth ; 

She did but look through dimmer eyes ; 

Or Love but play'd with gracious lies, 
Because he felt so fix'd in truth : 

And if the song were full of care. 

He breathed the spirit of the song ; 
And if the words were sweet and strong 

He set his royal signet there ; 



382 IN MEMORIAM. 

Abiding with me till I sail 

To seek thee on the mystic deeps, 
And this electric force, that keeps 

A thousand pulses dancing, fall. 

cxxv. 

Love is and was my Lord and King, 
And in his presence I attend 
To hear the tidings of my friend, 

Which every hour his couriers bring. 

Love Is and was my King and Lord, 
And will be, tho' as yet I keep 
Within his court on earth, and sleep 

Encompass'd by his faithful guard. 

And hear at times a sentinel 

Who moves about from place to place. 
And whispers to the worlds of space, 

In the deep night, that all is well. 

CXXVI. 

And all Is well, tho' faith and form 

Be sunder'd In the night of fear; 
Well roars the storm to those that hear 

A deeper voice across the storm, 

Proclaiming social truth shall spread, 
And justice, ev'n tho' thrice again 
The red fool-fury of the Seine 

Should pile her barricades with dead. 

But ill for him that wears a crown, 
And him, the lazar, in his rags : 
They tremble, the sustaining crags ; 

The spires of ice are toppled down, 

And molten up, and roar in flood ; 

The fortress crashes from on high. 
The brute earth lightens to the sky, 

And the great ^on sinks In blood. 

And compass'd by the fires of Hell ; 

While thou, dear spirit, happy star, 
O'erlook'st the tumult from afar. 

And smilest, knowing aU is well. 



EST MEMORIAM. 383 

CXXVII. 

The love that rose on stronger wings, 

Unpalsied when he met with Death, 
Is comrade of the lesser faith 

That sees the course of human things. 

No doubt vast eddies in the flood 

Of onward time shall yet be made, 
And throned races may degrade ; 

Yet O ye mysteries of good, 

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear, 
If all your office had to do 
With old results that look like new ; 

If this were all your mission here, 

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword. 

To fool the crowd with glorious lies, 
To cleave a creed in sects and cries, 

To change the bearing of a word, 

To shift an arbitrary power, - 

To cramp the student at his desk, 
To make old bareness picturesque 

And tuft with grass a feudal tower ; 

Why then my scorn might well descend 
On you and yours. I see in part 
That all, as in some piece of art, 

Is toil cooperant to an end. 

cxxvin. 

Dear friend, far off, my lost desire. 

So far, so near in woe and weal ; 

O loved the most, when most I feel 
There is a lower and a higher ; 

Known and unknown ; human, divine ; 

Sweet human hand and lips and eye ; 

Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, 
Mine, mine, forever, ever mine ; 

Strange friend, past, present, and to be ; 

Loved deeplier, darklier understood ; 

Behold, I dream a dream of good. 
And mingle all the world with thee. 



384 IN MEMORIAM. 

CXXIX. 

Thy voice is on the rolling air ; 

I bear thee where the waters run ; 

Thou standest in the rising sun, 
And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou then ? I cannot guess ; 
But tho' I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less : 

My love involves the love before ; 

My love is vaster passion now ; 

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 

I have thee still, and I rejoice ; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice; 
I shall not lose thee tho' I die. 

cxxx. 

O LIVING will that shalt endure 

When all that seems shall suffer shock, 
Eise in the spiritual rock, 

Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure, 

That we may lift fi-om out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquer'd years 

To one that with us works, and trust. 

With faith that comes of self-control. 

The truths that never can be proved 
Until we close with all we loved, 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 



O TRUE and tried, so well and long, 
Demand not thou a marriage-lay ; 
In that it is thy marriage-day 

Is music more than any song. 



IN MEMORIAM. 385 

Nor ha.ve I felt so much of bliss 

Since fii-st he told me that he loved 
A daughter of our house ; nor proved 

Since that dark day a day like this ; 

Tho' I since then have number'd o'er 

Some thrice three years ': they went and came, 
Remade the blood and changed the frame, 

And yet is love not less, but more ; 

No longer caring to embalm 

In dj-ing songs a dead regret, 

But hke a statue solid-set, 
And moulded in colossal cahn. 

Regret is dead, but love is more 

Than in the summers that are flown. 
For I myself with these have grown 

To something greater than before ; 

Which makes appear the songs I made 
As echoes out of weaker times. 
As half but idle brawling rhymes, 

The sport of random sun and shade. 

But where is she, the bridal flower, 

That must be made a wife ere noon ? 
She enters, glowing like the moon 

Of Eden on its bridal bower : 

On me she bends her blissful eyes 

And then on thee ; they meet thy look 
And brighten like the star that shook 

Bet^vixt the palms of paradise. 

O when her life was yet in bud, 

He too foretold the perfect rose. 

For thee she grew, for thee she grows 
Forever, and as fair as good. 

And thou art worthy ; full of power ; 
As gentle ; liberal-minded, great. 
Consistent ; wearing all that weight 

Of learning lightly like a flower. 
25 



386 EST MEMORIAM. 

But now set out : the noon is near, 

And I must give away the bride ; 
She fears not, or with thee beside 

And me behind her, will not fear : 

For I that danced her on my knee. 

That watch'd her on lier nurse's arm. 
That shielded all her life from harm 

At last must part with her to thee ; 

Now waiting to be made a wife. 

Her feet, my darling, on the dead ; 
Their pensive tablets round her head. 

And the most living words of life 

Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, 

The " wilt thou " answer'd, and again 
The " wilt thou " ask'd, till out of twain 

Her sweet " I will," has made ye one. 

Now sign your names, which shall be read. 
Mute symbols of a joyful morn. 
By village eyes as yet unborn ; 

The names are sign'd, and overhead 

Begins the clash and clang that tells 

The joy to every wandering breeze ; 
The blind wall rocks, and on the trees 

The dead leaf trembles to the bells. 

O happy hour, and happier hours 

Await them. Many a merry face 
Salutes them — maidens of the place, 

That pelt us in the porch with flowers. 

O happy hour, behold the bride 

With him to whom her hand I gave. 
They leave the porch, tliey pass the grave 

That has to-day its sunny side. 

To-day the grave is bright for me. 

For them the light of life increased, 
Who stay to share tlie morning-feast, 

Who rest to-nio-ht beside tlie sea. 



IN MEMORIAM. 387 

Let all mv genial spirits advance 

To meet and greet a whiter sun ; 

My drooping memory will not shun 
The foaming grape' of eastern France. 

It circles round, and fancy plays, 

And hearts are warm'd and faces bloom, 
As drinking health to bride and groom 

We wish them store of happy days. • 

Nor count me all to blame if I 
Conjecture of a stiller guest, 
Perchance, perchance, among the rest, 

And, tho' in silence, wishing joy. 

But they must go, the time*draws on, 

And those white-fa vor'd horses wait ; 
They rise, but linger ; it is late ; 

FarcAvell, we kiss, and they are gone. 

A shade falls on us like the dark 

From little cloudlets on the grass. 

But sweeps away as out Ave pass 
To range the woods, to roam the park, 

Discussing how their courtship grew, 
And talk of othei's that are wed. 
And how she look'd, and what he said, 

And back we come at fall of dew. 

Again the feast, the speech, the glee. 

The shade of passing thought, the wealth 
Of words and wit, the double health. 

The crowning cup, the three-times-three. 

And last the dance ; — till I retire : 

Dumb is that tower which spake so loud, 
And high in heaven the streaming cloud, 

And on the downs a rising fire : 

And rise, O moon, from yonder down. 

Till over down and over dale 

All night the shining vapor sail 
And pass the silent-lighted town. 



388 IN MEMORIAM. 

Tlie white-faced halls, the glancing rills, 
And catch at every mountain-head, 
And o'er the friths that branch and spread 

Their sleeping silver thro' the hills ; 

And» touch with shade the bridal doors, 

With tender gloom the roof, the wall; 
And breaking let the splendor fall 

To spangle all the happy shores 

By which they rest, and ocean sounds, 
And, star and system rolling past, 
A soul shall draw from out the vast 

And strike his being into bounds. 

And, moved thro' life of lower phase, 
Result in man, be born and think, 
And act and love, a closer link 

Betwixt us and the crowning race 

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look 

On knowledge ; under whose command 
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand 

Is Nature like an open book ; 

No longer half-akin to brute, 

For all we thought and loved and did, 
And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed 



1^ 



Of what in them is flower and fruit ; 1^ 

Whereof the man, that with me trod 

This planet, was a noble type 

Appearing ere the times were ripe, 
That friend of mine who lives in God, 

That God, which ever lives and loves, 

One God, one law, one element, 

And one far-off divine event. 
To which the whole creation moves. 



^^te^^^^^s-^^^^ 




]M A U D . 


PART I. 


I. 


1. 



I HATK the dreadful holloAv behind the little wood, 
Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-rod heath. 
The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, 
And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers, " Death." 

2. 
For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found. 
His who had given me life — O father! O God! was it 

well ? — 
Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted into the 

ground : 
There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell. 

o 

Did he fling himself down ? who knows ? for a vast specu- 
lation had fail'd, 

And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever wann'd with 
despair, 

And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken worldling 
wail'd, 

And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro' the air. 



I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirrM 
By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail'd, by a wi.iisper'd 
fright. 



390 MAUD. 

And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart 

as I heard 
The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering 

night. 

5. 
Villany somewhere ! whose ? One says, we are villains all. 
Not he : his honest fame should at least by me be main- 

tain'd : 
But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the 

Hall, 
Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and 

drain'd. 

6. 
Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace ? we have 

made them a curse, 
Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own ; 
And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse 
Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own 

hearthstone ? 

7. 
But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of 

mind, 
AVhen who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's 

ware or his word ? 
Is it peace or war ? Civil war, as I think, and that of a 

kind 
The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword. 

8. 

Sooner or later I too may passively take the print 

Of the golden age — why not ? I have neither hope nor 

trust ; 
May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint, 
Cheat and be cheated, and die : who knows ? we are ashes 

and dust. 

9. 
Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone 

by, 

When the poor are hovell'd and hustled together, each sex, 

like swine. 
When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie ; 
Peace in her vineyard — yes ! — but a company forges the 

wine 

10. 
And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head, 
Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife, 



MAUD. ^91 

AVhlle challv and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for 

bread, 
And tbe spirit of murder works in the very means of life, 

11. 

And Sleep must He down arm'd, for the vlllanous centre - 

bits 
Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless 

nights, 
AMiIle anotlier Is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as 

he sits 
To pestle a poison'd poison behind his crimson lights. 

12. 
Wlien a Mammonlte mother kills her babe for a burial-fee, 
And Timour-^Manmion grins on a pile of children's bones. 
Is it peace or war ? better, war ! loud war by land and by 

sea. 
War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones, 

13. 

For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the 
hill. 

And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out 
of the foam, 

That the smoothfaced, snubnosed rogue would leap from his 
counter and till. 

And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yard- 
wand, home. 

14. 

What ! am I raging alone as my father raged In his mood ? 

Must / too creep to the hollow and dash myself down and 
die 

Rather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore to 
brood 

On a horror of shatter'd limbs and a wretched swindler's 
lie? 

15. 

Would there be sorrow for me 2 there was love in the pas- 
sionate shriek. 

Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the 
gi'ave — 

Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and thought he would rise 
and speak 

And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he used to 
rave. 



392 MAUD. 

16. 
I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am sick of the moor 

and the main. 
Why should I stay ? can a sweeter chance ever come to me 

here ? 
O, having the nerves of motion as well as the nerves of 

pain, 
Were it not Avise if 1 fled from the place and the pit and 

the fear ? 

17. 
Workmen up at the Hall ! — they are coming back from 

abroad ; 
The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a milHon- 

naire : 
I have heard, I know not Avhence, of the singular beauty of 

• Maud ; 
I play'd Avnth the girl when a child ; she promised then to 

be fair. 

18. 
Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles and child- 
ish escapes, 
Maud the delight of the villao;e, the rlno'ino- ioy of the 

Hall, 
Maud Avith her SAveet purse-mouth AA'-hen my father dangled 

the grapes, 
Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-faced darling of 

all,- 

19. 
What is she noAv ? My dreams are bad. She may bring 

me a curse. 
No, there is fatter game on the moor ; she avIII let me alone. 
Thanks, for tlie fiend best knows whether Avoman or man be 

the worse. 
I will bury myself in my books, and the Devil may pipe to 

his OAvn. 



n. 

Long have I sigh'd for a calm : God gTant I may find it at 

last! 
It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither savor nor 

salt. 
But a cold and clear-cut flice, as I found Avhen her carriage 

[ 1 erfectly beautiful : let it be granted her : where is the 
fault ? 



MAUD. 393 

All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen) 
Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, 
Dead perfection, no more ; nothing more, if it had not been 
For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's defect of the 

rose. 
Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ripe, too full. 
Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose, 
From which I escaped heart-free, Avith the least little touch 

of spleen. J 

III. 

Cold and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly meek, 
Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was diown'd, 
Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on the 

cheek. 
Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom profound ; 
AVomajilike, taking revenge too deep for a transient wrong- 
Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as pale as 

before 
Growing and fading and growing upon me without a sound, 
Luminous, gemllke, ghostlike, deathlike, half the night long 
Growing and fading and growing, till I could bear it no 

more, 
But arose, and all by myself in my own dark garden 

ground, 
Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung ship-wrecking 

roar. 
Now to the scream of a maddeu'd beach dragg'd down by 

the wave, 
Walk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly gllunner, and found 
The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his grave. 

IV. 

1. 

A MILLION emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime 
In the little grove where I sit — ah, wherefore cannot I be 
Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful season 

bland, 
When the fiir-off sail is bloAvn by the breeze of a softer 

clime, 
Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of sea, 
The silent sapphire-spangled marrlage-ring of the land? 



394 MAUD. 

2. 

Below me, there, is the village, and looks how quiet and 

small ! 
And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with gossip, scandal, and 

spite ; 
And Jack on his ale-house bench has as many lies as a 

Czar ; 
And here on the landward side, by a red rock, glimmers the 

Hall ; 
And up in the high Hall-garden I see her pass like a light ; 
But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading star ! 

3. 
When have I bow'd to her father, the wrinkled head of the 

race ? 
I met her to-day with her brother, but not to her brother I 

bow'd ; 
I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on the moor ; 
But the fire of a foolish pride flash'd over her beautiful face. 

child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being so 

proud ; 
Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am nameless and 
poor. 

4. 

1 keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander and 

steal ; 
I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or like 
A wiser epicurean, and let the world have its way : 
For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal ; 
The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow spear'd by 

the slirike, 
And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plun- 
der and prey. 

5. 

We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her 

flower ; 
Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at 

a game 
That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed ? 
Ah yet, Ave cannot be kind to each other here for an hour ; 
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother's 

shame ; 
However we brave it out, we men are a little breed. 



MAUD. 395 



A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of Earth, 
For him did his high sun flame, and his river billowing ran, 
And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's crowning 

race. 
As nine months go to the shaping an infent ripe for his birth. 
So many a million of ages have gone to the making of man : 
He now is first, but is he the last ? is he not too base ? 

7. 
The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain, 
An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor ; 
The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd into folly and 

vice. 
I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate brain ; 
For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were 

more 
Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a garden of 

spice. 

8. 
For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil. 
Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring 

them about ? 
Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide. 
Shall I weep if a Poland fall ? shall I shriek if a Hungary 

fail? 
Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod or with knout ? 
I have not made the world, and He that made it will guide. 

9. 

Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways, 

Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my lot. 

Far-off from the clamor of liars belied in the hubbub of 
lies; 

From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are ever hiss- 
ing dispraise 

Because their natures are little, and, whether he heed it or 
not, 

Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poison- 
ous flies. 

10. 

And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of 
love, 

The honey of poison-floAvcrs and all the measureless ill. 

All Maud, you milk-white fawn, you are all unmeet for a 
wife. 



396 MAUD. 

Your mother is mute in her grave as her image is marble 

above ; 
Your father is ever in London, you wander about at your 

will ; 
You have but fed on the roses, and lain in the lilies of life. 

V. 

1. 
A VOICE by the cedar-tree, 
In the meadow under the Hall ! 
She is singing an air that is known to me, 
A passionate ballad, gallant and gay, 
A martial song like a trumpet's call ! 
Singing alone in the morning of life. 
In the happy morning of life and of May, 
Singing of men that in battle array, 
Ready in heart and ready in hand, 
March with banner and bugle and fife 
To the death, for their native land. 

2. 
Maud with her exquisite face, 
And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky, 
And feet like sunny gems on an English green, 
Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, 
Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die, 
Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean, 
And myself so languid and base. 

3. 
Silence, beautiful voice ! 
Be still, for you only trouble the mind 
With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 
A glory I shall not find. 
Still ! I will hear you no more. 
For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice 
But to move to the meadow and fall before 
Her feet on the meadow-grass, and adore, 
Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind, 
Not her, not her, but a voice. 

VJ. 

1. 
Morning arises stormy and pale. 
No sun, but a wannish glare 
In fold upon fold of hueless cloud. 
And the budded peaks of the wood are bow'd 



397 



Cauoht and ciifF'd bv the 2;ale : . 
I bad faucied it Avoidd be fair. 

2. 
Whom but Maud should I meet 
Last night, when the sunset burn'd 
On the blossom'd gable-ends 
At the head of the village street, 
Whom but Maud should I meet ? 
And she touch'd my hand with a smile so sweet 
She made me divine amends 
For a courtesy not return'd. 

3. 
And thus a delicate spark 
Of glowing and growing light 
Thro' the livelong houi-s of the dark 
Kept itself warm in the heart of my dreams, 
Ready to bm*st in a color 'd flame ; 
Till at last when the morning came 
In a cloud, it faded, and seems 
But an ashen-gray delight. 

4. 
What if with her sunny hair, 
And smile as sunny as cold, 
She meant to Aveave me a snare 
Of some coquettish deceit, 
Cleopatra-like as of old 
To entangle me Avhen we met, 
To haA'e her lion roll in a silken net 
And fawn at a victor's feet. 

5. 
Ah, what shall I be at fifty 
SiioiUd Nature keep me alive, 
If I find the world so bitter 
When I am but twenty-five ? 
Yet, if she were not a cheat, 
If Maud were all that she seem'd. 
And her smile were all that I dream'd, 
Then the world were not so bitter 
But a smile could make it sweet. 

6. 
What if tho' her eye seem'd full 
Of a kind intent to me, 
What if tliat dandy-despot, he. 
That jewell'd nrass of millinery, 
That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian Bidl 



398 MAUD. 

Smelling of musk and of Insolence, 
Her brother, from whom I keep aloof, 
Who wants the finer politic sense 
To mask, tho' but in his own behoof, 
With a glassy smile his brutal scorn — 
What if he had told her yestermorn 
How prettily for his own sweet sake 
A face of tenderness might be feign'd, 
And a moist mirage in desert eyes. 
That so, when the rotten hustings shake 
In another month to his brazen lies, 
A wretched vote may be gain'd. 

7. 
For a raven ever croaks, at my side, 
Keep watch and ward, keep watch and ward, 
Or thou wilt prove their tool. 
Yea too, mj-self from myself I guard. 
For often a man's own angry pride 

ils cap and bells for a fool. 
8. 
Perhaps the smile and tender tone 
Came out of her pitying womanhood. 
For am I not, am I not, here alone 
So many a summer since she died. 
My mother, who was so gentle and good ? 
Living alone in an empty house, 
Here half-hid in the gleaming wood. 
Where I hear the dead at midday moan, 
And the shrieking rush of the wainscot mouse, 
And my own sad name in corners cried, 
AVhen the shiver of dancing leaves is thrown 
About its echoing chambers wide, 
Till a morbid hate and horror have grown 
Of a world in which I have hardly mixt, 
And a morbid eating lichen-fixt 
On a heart half turn'd to stone. 

9. 
O heart of stone, are you flesh, and caught 
By that you swore to withstand ? 
For what was it else within me wrought 
But, I fear, the new strong wine of love. 
That made my tongue so stammer and trip 
When I saw the treasured splendor, her hand, 
f Come sliding out of her sacred glove, 
1 And the sunlight broke from her lip ? 



MAUD. 399 

10. 
I have play'd with her when a child ; 
She remembers it now we meet. 
Ah well, well, well, I may be beguiled 
By some coquettish deceit. 
Yet, if she were not a cheat, 
If ]\Iaud were all that she seem'd, 
And her smile had all that I dream'd, 
Then the world were not so bitter 
But a smile could make it sweet. 

VII. 

1. 
Did I hear it half in a doze 

Long since, I know not where ? 
Did I dream it an hour ago. 

When asleep in this arm-chair ? 
2. 
Men were drinking together, 

Drinking and talking of me ; 
" Well, If it prove a girl, the boy 

Will have plenty : so let it be.'' 
3. 
Is it an echo of something 

Read with a boy's delight, 
Viziers nodding together 

In some Arabian night ? 
4. 
Strange, that I hear tAvo men. 

Somewhere, talking of me ; 
" Well, if it pi'ove a girl, my boy 

Will have plenty ; so let it be." 

VIII. 

She came to the village-church, 

And sat by a pillar alone ; 

An angel Avatching an urn 

Wept over her, carved in stone ; 

And once, but once, she lifted her eyes. 

And suddenly, sweetly, strangely blush'd 

To find they were met by my own ; 

And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat stronger 

And thicker; until I heard no longer 

The snowy-banded dilettante. 

Delicate-handed priest intone ; 



400 • MAUD. 

And thought, is It pride, and mused and sigh'd, 
" No, surely, now it cannot be pride." 

IX. 

I WAS walking a mile, 
More than a mile from the shore, 
The sun look'd out with a smile 
Betwixt the cloud and the moor, 
And riding at set of day 
Over the dark moor-land. 
Rapidly riding far away, 
She waved to me with her hand. 
There were two at her side. 
Something flasli'd in the sun, 
Down by the hill I saw them ride, 
In a moment they were gone : 
Like a sudden spark 
Struck vainly in the night. 
And back returns the dark 
With no more liope of light. 

X. 

1. 

Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread ? 
Was not one of the two at her side 
Tliis new-made lord, whose splendor plucks 
The slavish hat from the villager's head ? 
Whose old grandfather has lately died. 
Gone to a blacker pit, for whom 
Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks 
And laying his trams in a poison'd gloom 
Wrought, till he crept from a gutted mine 
Master of half a servile shire, 
And left his coal all turn'd into gold 
To a grandson, first of his noble line. 
Rich in the grace all women desire. 
Strong in the power that all men adore, 
And simper and set their voices lower. 
And soften as if to a girl, and hold 
Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine. 
Seeing his gewgaw castle shine, 
New as his title, built last year. 
There amid perky larches and pine, 
And over the sullen-purple moor 
(Look at it) pricking a cockney ear. 



MAUD. 401 

2. 

What, has he found my jewel ont ? 
For one of the two that rode at her side 
Bound for the Hall, I am sure was he : 
Bound for the Hall, and I think for a bride. 
Blithe wouhl her brother's acceptance be. 
Maud could be gracious too, no doubt, 
To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, 
A bought commission, a waxen face, 
A rabbit-mouth that is ever agape — 
Bought ? what is it he cannot buy ? 
And therefore splenetic, personal, base, 
A wounded thing with a rancorous cry. 
At war with myself and a wretched race, 
Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I. 

3. 
Last week came one to the county town. 
To preach our poor little army down, 
And play the game of the des20ot kings, 
Tho' the state has done it and thrice as well : 
This broad-brim'd hawker of holy thing-s, 
Whose ear is cramm'd with his cotton, and rings 
Even in dreams to the chink of his pence. 
This huckster j)ut down war ! can he tell 
Whether war be a cause or a consequence ? 
Put down the passions that make earth Hell ! 
Down with ambition, avarice, pride. 
Jealousy, down ! cut off from the mind 
The bitter springs of anger and fear ; 
Down too, down at your own fireside. 
With the evil tongue and the evil ear. 
For each is at war with mankind. 

4. 
I wnsh I could hear again 
The chivalrous battle-song 
That she warbled alone in her joy! 
I might persuade myself then 
She would not do herself this oreat wron^, 
To take a wanton, dissolute boy 
For a man and leader of men. 

5. 
Ah God, for a man with heart, head, hand, 
liike some of the simple great ones gone 
For ever and ever by. 
One still strong man in a blatant land, 
26 



402 MAUD. 

Whatever tliej call him, what care I, 
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat — one 
Who can rale and dare not lie. 

6. 
And all for a man to arise in me, 
That the man I am may cease to be ! 

XL 

1. 

LET the solid ground 
Not fail beneath my feet 

Before my life has found 

What some have found so sweet ; 
Then let come what come may. 
What matter if I go mad, 

1 shall have had my day. 

2. 
Let the sweet heavens endure. 

Not close and darken above me 
Before I am quite quite sure 

That there is one to love me ; 
Then let come what come may 
To a life that has been so sad, 
I shall have had my day. 

XII. 

L 
Birds in the high Hall-garden 
When twilight was falling, 
Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 

They were crying and calling. 
2. 
Where was Maud ? in our wood ; 

And I, who else ? was with her, 
Gathering woodland lilies, ■ 
Myriads blow together, 
3. 
Birds in our wood sang 

Ringing thro' the vallies, 
Maud is here, here, here 
In among the lilies. 
4. 
I kiss'd her slender hand. 

She took the kiss sedately ; 



403 



Maud is not seventeen, 

But she is tall and stately. 
5. 
I to cry out on pride 

Who have won her favor ! 

Maud were sure of Heaven 

If lowliness could save her. 
6. 

1 know the way she went 

Home with her maiden posy, 
For her feet have touch'd the meadows 

And left the daisies rosy. 
7. 
Birds in the hio;h Hall-o-arden 

Were crying and calling to her, 
Where is Maud, Maud, Maud, ' 

One is come to woo her. 
8. 
Look, a horse at the door, 

And little King Charley snarling, 
Go back, my lord, across the moor, 

You are not her' darling. 

XIII. 
1. 

Scorn'd, to be scorn'd by one that I scorn, 

Is that a matter to make me fret ? 

That a calamity hard to be borne ? 

Well, ho may live to hate me yet. 

Fool that I am to be vext with his pride ! 

I past him, I was crossing his lands ; 

He stood on the path a little aside; 

His face, as I grant, in spite of spite. 

Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and white, 

And six feet two, as I think, he stands ; 

But his essences turn'd the live air sick. 

And barbarous opulence jewel-thick 

Sunn'd itself on his breast and his hands. 

2. 
"Wlio shall call me ungentle, unfair, 
I long'd so heartily then and there 
To give him the grasp of fellowship ; 
But while I past he was humming an air, 
Stopt, and then with a riding-whip 
Leisurely tapping a glossy boot, 



404 



And curving a contumelious lip, 
Gorgonized me from head to foot 
With a stonj British stare. 

3. 
Why sits he here in his father's chair ? 
That old man never comes to his place : 
Shall I believe him ashamed to be seen ? 
For only once, in the village-street, 
Last year, I caught a glimpse of his face, 
A gray old wolf and a lean. 
Scarcely, now, would I call him a cheat ; 
For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit, 
She might by a true descent be mitrue ; 
And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet : 
Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due 
To the sweeter blood by the other side ; 
Her mother has been a thing complete. 
However she came to be so allied. 
And fair without, faithful within, 
Maud to him is nothing akin : 
Some peculiar mystic grace 
Made her only the child of her mother, 
And heap'd the whole inherited sin 
On that huge scapegoat of the race, 
All, all upon the brother. 

4. 
Peace, angry spirit, and let him be ! 
Has not his sister smiled on me ? 

XIV. 

1. 
Maud has a garden of roses 
And lilies fciir on a lawn ; 
There she walks in her state. 
And tends upon bed and bower ; 
And thither I climb'd at dawn 
And stood by her garden-gate ; 
A lion ramps at the top, 
He is claspt by a passion-flower. 

2. 
Maud's own little oak-room 
(Which Maud, like a precious stone 
Set in the heart of the carven gloom. 
Lights by herself, when alone 
She sits by her music and books, 



MAUD. 



405 



And her brother lingers late 

With a roystering company) looks 

Upon Maud's own garden-gate : 

And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as white 

As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid 

On the hasp of the window, and my Delight 

Had a sudden desire, like a glorious ghost, to glide. 

Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, down to my side, 

There were but a step to be made. 

8. 
The fancy flatter'd my mind, 
And again seem'd overbold ; 
Now I thought that she cared for me, 
Now I thought she was kind 
Only because she was cold. 

4. 
I heard no sound where I stood 
But the rivulet on from the lawn 
Running down to my own dark wood ; 
Or the voice of the long sea-wave as it swell'd 
Now and then in the dim-gray dawn ; 
But I.look'd, and round, all round the house I beheld 
The death-white curtain drawn ; 
Felt a horror over me creep, 
Prickle my skin and catch my breath, 
Knew that the death-white curtain meant but sleep, 
Yet I shudder'd and thought like a fool of the sleep of death. 

XV. 

So dark a mind within me dwells, 

And I make myself such evil cheer. 
That if / be dear to some one else, 

Then some one else may have much to fear ; 
But if / be dear to some one else. 

Then I should be to myself more dear. 
Shall I not take care of all that I think. 
Yea ev'n of wretched meat and drink. 
If I be dear, 
If I be dear to some one else. 

XVI. 

1. 
This Imnp of earth has left his estate 
The lighter by the loss of his weight ; 
And so that he find what he went to seek, 



406 MAUD. 

And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and drown 

His heart in the gross mud-honey of town, 

He may stay for a year who has gone for a week ; 

But this is the day when I must speak, 

And I see my Oread coming down, 

O this is the day ! 

beautiful creature, what am I 
That I dare to look her way ; 
Think I may hold dominion sweet. 

Lord of the pulse that is lord of her breast, 
And dream of her beauty with tender dread, 
From the delicate Arab arch of her feet 
To the grace that, bright and light as the crest 
Of a peacock, sits on her shining head. 
And she knows it not : O, if she knew it, 
To know her beauty might half undo it. 

1 know it the one bright thing to save 
My yet young life in the wilds of Time, 
Perhaps from madness, perhaps from crime, 
Perhaps from a selfish grave. 

2. 
What, if she be fasten'd to this fool lord, 
Dare I bid her abide by her word ? 
Should I love her so well if she 
Had given her Avord to a thing so low ? 
Shall I love her as well if she 
Can break her word were it even for me ? 
I trust that it is not so. 

3. 
Catch not my breath, O clamorous heart, 
Let not my tongue be a thrall to my eye, 
For I must tell her before we part, 
I must tell her, or die. 

xvn. 

Go not, happy day, 

From the shining fields, 
Go not, happy day, 

Till the maiden yields. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth. 
When the happy Yes 

Falters from her lips, 



MAUD. 407 

Pass and blush the news 

O'er the blowing ships. 
Over blowing seas, 

Over seas at rest, 
Pass the happy news, 

Blush it thro' the West ; 
Till the red man dance 

By his red cedar-tree, 
And the red man's babe 

Leap, beyond the sea. 
Blush from West to East, 

Blush from East to West, 
Till the West is East, 

Blush it thro' the West. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her checks, 

And a rose her mouth. 

XVIII. 

1. 
I HAVE led her home, my love, my only friend. 
There is none like her, none. 
And never yet so warmly ran my blood 
And sweetly, on and on 
Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for end. 
Full to the banks, close on the promised good. 

2. 
None like her, none. 

Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk 
Seem'd her light foot along the garden-walk. 
And shook my heart to think she comes once more ; 
But even then I heard her close the door. 
The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone. 

3. 
There is none like her, none. 
Nor will be Avhen our summers have deceased. 
O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 

In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious East, 
Sighing for Lebanon, 

Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here Increased, 
Upon a pastoral slope as fair, 
And looking to the South, and fed 
With honey 'd rain and delicate air, 
And haunted by the starry head 
Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate, 



408 MAUD. 

And made my life a perfumed altar-flame ; 
And over whom tlij darkness must have spread 
With such deliglit as theirs of old, thy great 
Forefathers of the thornless garden, there 
Shadowing the snow-lim'd Eve from whom she came. 

4. 
Here will I lie, while these long branches sway, 
And you fair stars that crown a happy day 
Go in and out as if at merry play, 
Who am no more so all forlorn, 
As when it seem'd far better to be born 
To labor and the mattock-harden'd hand. 
Than nursed at ease and brought to understand 
A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
That makes you tyrants in your iron skies. 
Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes. 
Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand 
His nothingness into man. 

5. 
But now shine on, and what care I, 
Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl 
The counter-charm of space and hollow sky, 
And do accejot my madness, and would die 
To save from some slight shame one simple girl. 

6. 
Would die ; for sullen-seeming Death may give 
More life to Love than is or ever was 
In our low world, where yet 't is sweet to live. 
Let no one ask me how it came to pass ; 
It seems that I am happy, that to me 
A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, 
A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 

7. 
Not die ; but live a life of truest breath, 
And teach ti-ue life to fight with mortal wrongs. 
O why should Love, like men in drinking-songs, 
Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death ? 
Make answer, Maud my bhss, 
Maud made my Maud by that long lover's kiss. 
Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this ? 
"The dusky strand of Death inwoven here 
With dear Love's tie, makes Love himself more dear." 

8. 
Is that enchanted moan only the swell 
Of the long Avaves that roll in yonder bay ? 
And hark the clock within, the silver knell 



i 



409 



Of twelve sweet hours tliat past in bridal white, 

And died to live, long as my pulses play ; 

But now by this my love has closed her sight 

And given flilse death her hand, and stol'n away 

To dreamful wastes where footless fancies dwell 

Among the fragments of the golden day. 

May nothing there her maiden grace affright ! 

Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy spell. 

My bride to be, my evermore delight, 

My own heart's heart and ownest own, farewell ; 

It is but for a little space I go : 

And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell 

Beat to the noiseless music of the night ! 

Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow 

Of your soft splendors that you look so bright ? 

/ have climb'd nearer out of lonely Hell. 

Beat, happy stars, timing with things below. 

Beat with my heart more blest than heart can tell, 

Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woe 

That seems to draw — but it shall not be so : 

Let all be well, be well. 

XIX. 

1. 

Her brother Is coming back to-night, 
Breaking up my dream of delight. 

2. 
My dream ? do I dream of bliss ? 
I have walk'd awake with Truth. 

when did a morning shine 
So rich in atonement as this 
For my dark-dawning youth, 
Darken'd w^atching a mother decline 

And that dead man at her heart and mine : 
For Avho was left to watch her but I ? 
Yet so did I let my freshness die. 
3. 

1 trust that I did not talk 
To gentle Maud in our walk 
(For often in lonely wanderings 

I have cursed him even to lifeless things) 
But I trust that I did not talk, 
Not touch on her fither's sin : 
I am sure I did but speak 
Of my mother's faded cheek 



410 MAUD. 

When it slowly grew so thin, 

That I felt she was slowly dying 

Text with lawyers and harass'd with debt : 

For how often I caught her with eyes all wet, 

Shaking her head at her son and sighing 

A world of trouble within ! 

4. 
And Maud too, Maud was moved 
To speak of the mother she loved 
As one scarce less forlorn, 
Dying abroad and it seems apart 
From him who had ceased to share her heart. 
And ever mourning over the feud, 
The household Fury sprinkled with blood 
By which our houses are torn : 
How strange was what she said, 
When only Maud and the brother 
Hung over her dying bed — 
That Maud's dark father and mine 
Had bound us one to the other. 
Betrothed us over the wine, 
On the day when Maud was born ; 
Seal'd her mine from her first sweet breath. 
Mine, mine by a right, from birth till death, 
Mine, mine — our fathers have sworn. 

5. 
But the true blood spilt had in it a heat 
To dissolve the precious seal on a bond, 
That, if left uncancell'd, had been so sweet : 
And none of us thought of a something beyond, 
A desire that awoke in the heart of the child, 
As it were a duty done to the tomb, 
To be friends for her sake, to be reconciled ; 
And I was cursing them and my doom. 
And letting a dangerous thouo-ht run wild 
While often abroad in the fragrant gloom 
Of foreign churches — I see her there, 
Bright English lily, breathing a prayer 
To be friends, to be reconciled ! 

6. 
But then what a flint is he ! 
Abroad, at Florence, at B,ome, 
I find whenever she touch'd on me 
Tills brother had laugh'd her down. 
And at last, when each came home, 



411 



He had darken'd into a frown, 
Chid her, and forbid her to speak 
To me, her friend of the years before ; 
And this was what had redden'd her cheek 
IVlien I bow'd to her on the moor. 

7. 
Yet Maud, altho' not blind 
To the faults of his heart and mind, 
I see she cannot but love him. 
And says he is rough but kind. 
And wishes me to approve him. 
And tells me, when she lay 
Sick once, with a fear of worse, 
That he left his wine and horses and play, 
Sat with her, read to her, night and day. 
And tended her like a nurse. 

8. 
Kind ? but the deathbed desire 
Spurn'd by this heir of the liar — 
Rough but kind ? yet I know 
He has plotted against me in this, 
That he plots against me still. 
Kind to Maud ? that were not amiss. 
Well, rough but kind ; why, let it be so : 
For shall not Maud have her will ? 

9. 
For, Maud, so tender and true. 
As long as my life endures 
I feel I shall owe you a debt. 
That I never can hope to pay ; 
And if ever I should forget 
That I owe this debt to you 
And for your sweet sake to yours ; 

then, what then shall I say ? — 
If ever I should forget. 

May God make me more wretched 
Than ever I have been yet ! 

10. 
So now I have sworn to bury 
All this dead body of hate, 

1 feel so free and so clear 

By the loss of that dead weight, 

That I should grow light-headed, I fear, 

Fantastically merry ; 

But that her brother comes, like a blight 

On my fresh hope, to the Hall to-night. 



412 MAUD. 



XX. 

1. 

Strajstge, that I felt so gay, 
Strange, that I tried to-day 
To beguile her melancholy ; 
The Sultan, as we name him, — 
She did not wish to blame him, — 
But he vext her and perplext her 
With his worldly talk and folly : 
Was it gentle to reprove her 
For stealing out of view 
From a Httle lazy lover 
Who but claims her as his due ? 
Or for chilling his caresses 
By the coldness of her manners, 
Nay, the plainness of her dresses ? 
Now I know her but in two, 
Nor can pronounce upon it 
If one should ask me whether 
The habit, hat, and feather, 
Or the frock and gipsy-bonnet 
Be the neater and completer ; 
For nothing can be sweeter 
Than maiden Maud in either. 

2. 
But to-morrow, if we live, 
Our ponderous squire will give 
A grand political dinner 
To half the squirehngs near ; 
And Maud will wear her jewels, 
And the bird of prey wilL hover. 
And the titmouse hope to win her 
With his chirrup at her ear. 

3. 
A grand political dinner 
To the men of many acres, 
A gathering of the Tory, 
A dinner and then a dance 
For the maids and marriage-makers, 
And every eye but mine will glance 
At Maud in all her glory. 

4. 
For I am not invited. 
But, with the Sultan's pardon. 



MAUD. 413 

I am all as well delighted, 
For I know her own rose-garden, 
And mean to linger in it 
Till tlie dancing will be over ; 
And then, oh then, come out to me 
For a minute, but for a minute, 
Come out to your own true lover. 
That your true lover may see 
Your glory also, and render 
AU homage to his own darling, 
Queen Maud in all her splendor. 

XXI. 

KivULET crossing my ground, 

And bringing me down from the Hall 

This garden-rose that I found, 

Forgetful of Maud and me, 

And lost in trouble and moving round 

Here at the head of a tinkling fall. 

And trying to pass to the sea ; 

O Rivulet, born at the Hall, 

My Maud has sent it by thee 

(If I read her sweet will right) 

On a blushing mission to me. 

Saying in odor and color, "Ah, be 

Among the roses to-night." 

XXII. 

1. 
Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown. 
Come into the garden, Maud, 

I am here at the gate alone ; 
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 

And the musk of the roses blown. 
2. 
For a breeze of morning moves, 

And the planet of Love is on high, 
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves 

On a bed of daffodil sky, 
To faint in the light of the sun she loves. 

To faint in his light, and to die. 
3. 
All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon ; 



414 MAUD. 

, All niglit has the casement jessamine stirr'd 
To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 
And a hush with the setting moon. 
4. 
I said to the lily, " There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone. 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 
The last wheel echoes away. 
5. 
I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine. 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 

For one that will never be thine .? 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, 
" For ever and ever, mine." 
6. 
And the soul of the rose went into my blood, 

As the music clash'd in the hall; 
And long by the garden-lake I stoci^ 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, 
Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 
7. 
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 
That whenever a March-wind sighs 
. He sets the jewel-print of your feet 
In violets blue as your eyes. 
To the woody hollows in which we meet 
And the valleys of Paradise. 
8. 
The slender acacia would not shake 
One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake. 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all night for your sake. 

Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake. 
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 
9. 
Queen rose of the rosebud-garden of girls. 
Come hither, the dances are done, 



MAUD. 415 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 

Queen lily and rose in one ; 
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, 

To the flowers, and be their sun. 
10. 
There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 

She is coming, my life, my fate ; 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near ; " 

And the white rose weeps, " She is late ; " 
The larkspur listens, " T hear, I hear ; " 

And the lily whispers, " I wait." 
11. 
She is coming, my own, my sweet; 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and tremble under her feet. 

And blossom in purple and red. 



PART II. 
I. 

1. 
" The fault was mine, the fault was mine " — 
Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and still, 
Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the hill ? — ■ 
It is this guily hand ! — 
And there rises ever a passionate cry 
From underneath in the darkening land — 
What is it, that has been done ? 
O dawn of Eden bright over earth and sky, 
The fires of Hell brake out of thy rising sun, 
The fires of Hell and of Hate ; 
For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a word, 
When her brother ran in his rage to the gate. 
He came with the babe-faced lord ; 
Heap'd on her terms of disgrace. 
And while she wept, and I strove to be cool. 
He fiercely gave me the he. 
Till I with as fierce an anger spoke. 



416 



MAUD. 



And he struck me, madman, over the face. 

Struck me before the languid fool. 

Who was gaping and grinning by : 

Struck for himself an evil stroke ; 

Wrought for his house an irredeemable woe ; 

For front to front in an hour we stood. 

And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke 

From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the wood. 

And thunder'd up into Heaven the Clmstless code. 

That must have life for a blow. 




Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to grow. 
Was it lie lay there with a fading eye ? 



MAUD. 417 

" The fault was mine," he whisper'd, " fly ! " 

Then glided out of the joyous wood 

The ghastly Wraith of one that I know ; 

And there rang on a sudden a passionate cry, 

A cry for a brother's blood : 

It mil ring in my heart and my ears, till I die, till I die. 

2. 
Is it gone ? my pulses beat — 
What was it ? a lying trick of the brain ? 
Yet I thought I saw her stand, 
A shadow there at my feet, 
High over the shadowy land. 
It is gone ; and the heavens fall in a gentle rain, 
When they should burst and drown with deluging storms 
The feeble vassals of wine and anger and lust. 
The little hearts that know not how to forgive : 
Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold Thee just, 
Strike dead the Avhole weak race of venomous worms, 
That sting each other here in the dust ; 
We are not worthy to live. 

II. 

1. 
See what a lovely shell, 
Small and pure as a pearl, 
Lyling close to my foot. 
Frail, but a work divine. 
Made so fairily well 
With delicate spire and whorl, 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of design ! 

2. 
What is it ? a learned man 
Could give it a clumsy name. 
Let him name it who can. 
The beauty would be the same. 

3. 
The tiny cell Is forlorn, 
Void of the little living will 
Til at made it stir on the shore. 
Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill ? 
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, 
A golden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro' his dim water-world ? 
27 



418 MAUD. 



4. 

Slight, to be crush'd with a tap 
Of my finger-nail on the sand, 
Small, but a work divine, 
Frail, but of force to withstand, 
Year upon year, the shock 
Of cataract seas that snap 
The three-decker's oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock. 
Here on the Breton strand ! 

6. 
Breton, not Briton ; here 
Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast 
Of ancient fable and fear — 
Plagued with a flitting to and fi'O, 
A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 
That never came from on high 
Nor ever arose from below, 
But only moves with the moving eye, 
Flying along the land and the main — 
Why should it look like Maud ? 
Am I to be overawed 
By what I cannot but know 
Is a juggle born of the brain ? 

6. 
Back from the Breton coast, 
Sick of a nameless fear. 
Back to the dark sea-line 
Looking, thinking of all I have lost ; 
An old song vexes my ear ; 
But that of Lamech is mine. 

7. 
For years, a measureless ill. 
For years, forever, to part — 
But she, she would love me still ; 
And as long, O God, as she 
Have a grain of love for me. 
So long, no doubt, no doubt. 
Shall I nurse in my dark heart. 
However weary, a spark of will 
Not to be trampled out. 

8. 
Strange, that the mind, Avhen fraught 
With a passion so intense 
One would think that it well 



MAUD. 419 

]\light drown all life in the eye, — 

That it should, by being so overwrought, 

Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 

For a shell, or a flower, little things 

Which else would have been past by ! 

And now I remember, I, 

When he lay dying there, 

I noticed one of his many rings 

(For he had many, poor worm) and thought 

It is his mother's hair. 

9. 
Who knows if he be dead ? 
Whether I need have fled ? 
Am I guilty of blood ? 
However this may be, 
Comfort her, comfort her, all things good, 
While I am over the sea ! 
Let me and my passionate love go by. 
But speak to her all things holy and high, 
Whatever happen to me ! 
Me and my harmful love go by ; 
But come to her waking, find her asleep. 
Powers of the height, Powers of the deep, 
And comfort her tho' I die. 

III. 
Courage, poor heart of stone ! 
I Avill not ask thee why 
Thou canst not understand 
That thou art left forever alone : 
Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. — 
Or if I ask thee why. 
Care not thou to reply : 
She is but dead, and the time is at hand 
When thou shalt more than die. 

IV. 

1. 
O THAT 't were possible 
After long grief and pain 
To find the arms of my true love 
Round me once again ! 

2. 
When I was wont to meet her 
In the silent woody places 



i20 MAUD. 

By the home that gave me birth, 
We stood tranced in long embraces 
Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter 
Than anything on earth. 

3. 
A shadow flits before me, 
Not thou, but like to thee ; 
Ah Christ, that it were possible 
For one short hour to see 
The souls we loved, that they might tell us 
What and where they be. 

4. 
It leads me forth at evening. 
It lightly winds and steals 
In a cold wliite robe before me, 
When all my spirit reels 
At the shouts, the leagues of lights. 
And the roaring of the wheels. 

5. 
Half the night I waste in sighs, 
Half in dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of early skies ; 
In a wakeful doze I sorrow 
For the hand, the lips, the eyes. 
For the meeting of the morrow, 
The delight of happy laughter, 
The delight of low replies. 

6. 
*Tis a morning pure and sweet, 
And a dewy splendor falls 
On the httle flower that clings 
Tp the turrets and the walls ; 
'Tis a morning pure and sweet, 
And the light and shadow fleet ; 
She is walking in the meadow. 
And. the woodland echo rings ; 
In a moment we shall meet ; 
She is singing in the meadow, 
And the rivulet at her feet 
Kipples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 

7. 
Do I hear her sing as of old, 
My bird with the shining head. 
My own dove with the tender eye ? 



421 



But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry, 
There is some one dying or dead, 
And a sullen thunder is roli'd ; 
For a tumult shakes the city, 
And I wake, my dream is fled ; 
.In the shuddering dawn, behold, 
Without knowledge, without pity, 
By the curtains of my bed 
That abiding phantom cold. 

8. 
Get thee hence, nor come again, 
Mix not memory with doubt. 
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, 
Pass and cease to move about, 
'T is the blot upon the brain 
That will show itself without. 

9. 
Then I rise, the eavedrops fall. 
And the yellow vapors choke 
The great city sounding wide ; 
The day comes, a dull red ball 
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 
On the misty river-tide. 

10. 
Thro' the hubbub of the market 
I steal, a wasted frame, 
It crosses here, it crosses there. 
Thro' all that crowd confused and loud, 
The shadow still the siune ; 
And on my heavy eyelids 
My anguish hangs like shame. 

11. 
Alas for her that met me. 
That heard me softly call. 
Came glimmering thro' the laurels 
At the quiet evenfall, 
In the garden by the turrets 
Of the old manorial hall. 

12. 
Would the happy spirit descend. 
From the realms of light and song, 
In the chamber or the street, 
As she looks among the blest. 
Should I fear to greet my friend, 
Or to say, " Forgive the wrong," 



Or to ask her, " Take me, sweet. 
To tlie regions of thy rest ? " 

13. 
But the broad light glares and beats, 
And the shadow flits and fleets 
And will not let me be ; 
And I loathe the squares and streets, 
And the faces that one meets. 
Hearts with no love for me : 
Always I long to creep 
Into some still cavern deep. 
There to weep, and weep, and weep 
My whole soul out to thee. 



1. 
Dead, long dead, 
Long dead ! 

And my heart is a handful of dust, 
And the wheels go over my head. 
And my bones are shaken with pain. 
For into a shallow grave they are thrust, 
Only a yard beneath the street, 
And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat, 
The hoofs of the horses beat, 
Beat into my scalp and my brain, 
With never an end to the stream of passing feet, 
Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying, 
Clamor and rumble, and ringing and clatter. 
And here beneath it is all as bad, 
For I thought the dead had peace, but it is not so ; 
To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad ? 
But up and down and to and fro. 
Ever about me the dead men go ; 
And then to hear a dead man chatter 
Is enough to drive one mad. 

2. 
Wretchedest age, since Time began, 
They cannot even bury a man ; 

And tho' we paid our tithes in the days that are gone. 
Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read ; 
It is that which makes us loud in the world of the dead ; 
There is none that does his work, not one ; 
A touch of their office might have sufficed, 
But the churchmen fain would kill their church, 
As the churches have kill'd their Christ. 



MAUD. 423 



See, there is one of us sobbing, 

No limit to his distress ; 

And another, a lord of all things, praying 

To his own great self, as I guess ; 

And another, a statesman there, betraying 

His party-secret, fool, to the press ; 

And yonder a vile physician, blabbing 

The case of his patient — all for what ? 

To tickle the maggot born in an empty head, 

And wheedle a world that loves him not, 

For it Is but a world of the dead. 

4. 
Nothing but idiot gabble ! 
For the prophecy given of old 
And then not understood. 
Has come to pass as foretold ; 
Not let any man think for the public good. 
But babble, merely for babble. 
For I never whisper'd a private aifair 
Within the hearing of cat or mouse. 
No, not to myself in the closet alone. 
But I heard it shouted at once from the top of the house ; 
Everything came to be known : 
Who told Mm we were there ? 

5. 
Not that gray old wolf, for he came not back 
From the wilderness, full of wolves, where he used to lie ; 
He has gather'd the bones for his o'ergrown whelp to crack . 
Crack them now for yourself, and howl and die. 

6. 
Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip, 
And curse me the British vermin, the rat ; 
I know not whether he came in the Hanover ship, 
But I know that he lies and listens mute 
In an ancient mansion's crannies and holes : 
Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it, 
Except that now we poison our babes, poor souls ! 
It is all used up for that. 

7. 
Tell him now : she Is standing here at my head ; 
Not beautiful now ; not even kind ; 
He may take her now ; for she never speaks her mind, 
But is ever the one thing silent here. 
She Is not of us, as I divine ; 



424 MAUD. 

She comes from another stiller world of the dead, 
Stiller, not fairer than mine. 

8. 
But I know Avhere a garden grows, 
Fairer than aught in the world beside, 
All made up of the lily and rose 
That blow by night, when the season is good, 
To the sound of dancing music and flutes : 
It is only flowers, they had not fruits, 
And I almost fear they are not roses, but blood ; 
For the keeper was one, so full of pride, 
He linkt a dead man there to a spectral bride ; 
For he, if he had not been a Sultan of brutes, 
Would he have that hole in his side ? 

9. 
But what will the old man say ? 
He laid a cruel snare in a pit 
To catch a friend of mine one stormy day ; 
Yet now I could even weep to think of it ; 
For what will the old man say 
When he comes to the second corpse in the pit ? 

10. 
Friend, to be struck by the public foe, 
Then to strike him and lay him low, 
That were a public merit, far. 
Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin ; 
But the red life spilt for a private blow — 
I swear to you, lawful and lawless war 
Are scarcely even akin. 

11. 

me, why have they not buried me deep enough ? 
Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough, 

Me, that was never a quiet sleeper ? 
Maybe still I am but half dead ; 
Then I cannot be Avholly dumb ; 

1 will cry to the steps above my head. 

And somebody, surely, some kind heart will come 
To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so Httle deeper. 

VI. 

1. 
My life has crept so long on a broken wing 
Thro' cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, 
That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing : 



MAUD. 425 

My mood is changed, for It fell at a time of year 

T\Tien the face of night is foir on the dewy downs, 

And the shining daffodil dies, and the Charioteer 

And staiTY Gemini hang like glorious crowns 

Over Orion's grave low down in the west, 

That like a silent lightning under the stars 

She seem'd to divide in a dream from a band of the blest, 

And spoke of a hope for the world in the coming wars — 

"And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest, 

Knowing I tarry for thee," and pointed to Mars 

As he glow'd like ^ ruddy shield on the Lion's breast. 

2. 
And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a dear delight 
To have look'd, tho' but in a dream, upon eyes so fair, 
That had been in a weary world my one thing bright ; 
And it was but a dream, yet it lighten'd my despair 
When I thought that a war would arise in defence of the 

right. 
That an iron tyranny now should bend or cease. 
The glory of manhood stand on his ancient height, 
Nor Britain's one sole God be the millionaire : 
No more shall commerce be all in all, and Peace 
Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note. 
And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase. 
Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful shore. 
And the cobweb woven across the cannon's throat 
Shall shake its tlireaded tears in the wind no more. 

3. 
And as months ran on and rumor of battle grew, 
" It is time, it is time, O passionate heart," said I 
(For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pm^e and true), 
" It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye. 
That old hysterical mock-disease should die." 
And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my breath 
With a loyal people shouting a battle-cry. 
Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and fly 
Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death. 

4. 
Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aims 
Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold, 
And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and shames. 
Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told ; 
And hail once more to the banner of battle unroU'd ! 
Tho' many a light shall darken, and many shall weep 
For tliose that are crush'd in the clash of jarring claims. 
Yet God's just wrath shall be wreak'd on a giant liar ; 



426 THE BROOK. 

And many a darkness into the light shall leap, 
And shine in the sudden making of splendid names, 
And noble thought be freer under the sun, 
And the heart of a people beat with one desire ; 
For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, is over and done, 
And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic deep. 
And deathfal-grinning mouths of the fortress, flames 
The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire. 

5. 
Let it flame or fade, and the war roll doivn like a wind. 
We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are noble 

still, 
And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the better mind ; 
It is better to fight for the good, than to rail at the ill ; 
I have felt with my native land, I am one with my kind, 
I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom assign'd. 



THE BROOK; 

AN IDYL. 

" Here, by this brook, we parted ; I to the East 
And he for Italy — too late — too late : 
One whom the strong sons of the world despise ; 
For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and share, 
And mellow metres more than cent for cent ; 
Nor could he understand how money breeds, 
Thought it a dead thing ; yet himself could make 
The thing that is not as the thing that is. 

had he lived ! In our schoolbooks we say, 
Of those that held their heads above the crowd, 
They flourish 'd then or then ; but life in him 
Could scarce be said to flourish, only touch'd 
On such a time as goes before the leaf, 

Wlien all the wood stands in a mist of green. 
And nothing perfect : yet the brook he loved. 
For which, in branding summers of Bengal, 
Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neilgherry air, 

1 panted, seems, as I relisten to it, 
Prattling the primrose-fancies of the boy, 

To me that loved him ; for ' O brook,' he says, 

' O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his rhyme, 

' Whence come you ? ' and the brook, why not ? replies. 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, 
' I make a sudden sally 



J 



\ 



THE BROOK. 



427 



And sparkle out among tlie fern, 
To bicker down a valley. 

By tliirty hills I hurry down, 

Or slip between the ridges, 
By twenty thorps, a little town, 

And half a hundi-ed bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go. 

But I go on forever. 

" Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn out, 
Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley bridge, 
It has more ivy ; there the river ; and there 
Stands Philip's farm where brook and river meet. 

I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles, 
I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 

By many a field and fallow. 
And many a faiiy foreland set 

With wiUow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 

To join the brimming river. 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

"But Philip chatter'd more than brook or bird; 
Old Philip; all about the fields you caught 
His weary day-long chirping, like the dry 
High-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer grass. 

I wind about, and in and out, 

With here a blossom sailing. 
And here and there a lusty trout. 

And here and there a grayhng, 

. And here and there a foamy flake 
Upon me, as I travel 



428 THE BROOK. 

With many a silvery waterbreak 
Above the golden gravel, 

And draw them all along, and flow- 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

" O darling Katie Willows, his one child ! 
A maiden of our century, yet most meek ; 
A daughter of our meadows, yet not coarse ; 
Straight, but as lissome as a hazel-wand ; 
Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit within. 



" Sweet Katie, once I did her a good turn. 
Her and her far-off cousin and betrothed, 
James Willows, of one name and heart with her. 
For here I came, twenty years back — the week 
Before I parted with poor Edmund ; crost 
By that old bridge which, half in ruins then, 
Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam 
Beyond it, where the waters marry — crost, 
Whistling a random bar of Bonny Doon, 
And puslfd at Philip's garden-gate. The gate, 
Half-parted from a weak and scolding hiinge, 
Stuck ; and he clamor'd from a casement, ' Run,' 
To Katie somewhere in the walks below, 
' Bun, Katie ! ' Katie never ran : she moved 
To meet me, winding under woodbine-bowers, 
A little flutter'd, with her eyelids down. 
Fresh apple-blossom, blushing for a boon. 

" What was it ? less of sentiment than sense 
Had Katie ; not illiterate ; nor of those 
Who dabbling in the fount of Active tears. 
And nursed by mealy-moubh'd philanthropies. 
Divorce the Feeling from her mate the Deed. 

" She told me. She and James had quarrell'd. Why ? 
What cause of quarrel ? None, she said, no cause ; 
James had no cause : but when I prest the cause, 
I learnt that James had flickering jealousies 
Which anger'd her. Who ano;er'd James ? I said. 



THE BROOK. 429 

But Katie snatcli'd her eyes at once from mine, 

And sketching with her slender-pointed foot 

Some figure like a wizard's pentagram 

On garden-gravel, let my query pass 

Unclaim'd, in flushing silence, till I ask'd 

If James were coming. ' Coming every day,' 

She answer'd, ' ever longing to explain. 

But evermore her father came across 

AVith some long-winded tale, and broke him short ; 

And James departed vext with him and her.' 

How could I help her ? ' Would I — was it wrong ? ' 

(Claspt hands and that petitionary grace 

Of sweet seventeen subdued me ere she spoke) 

' O would I take her father for one hour, 

For one half-hour, and let him talk to me ! ' 

And even while she spoke, I saw where James 

Made toward us, like a wader in the surf, 

Beyond the brook, waist-deep in meadow-sweet. 

" O Katie, what I suflfer'd for your sake ! 
For in I went, and eall'd old Philip out 
To show the farm : full willingly he rose : 
He led me thro' the short sweet-smelling lanes 
Of his wheat-suburb, babbling as he went. 
He praised his land, his horses, his machines ; 
He praised his ploughs, his cows, his hogs, his dogs ; 
He praised his hens, his geese, his guinea-hens ; 
His pigeons, who in session on their roofs 
Approved him, bowing at their own deserts : 
Then from the plaintive mother's teat he took 
Her blind and shuddering puppies, naming each, 
And naming those, his friends, for whom they were : 
Then crost the common into Darnley chase 
'To show Sir Arthur's deer. In copse and fern 
Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. 
Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech. 
He pointed out a pasturing colt, and said : 
* That was the four-year-old I sold tlie S(|uire.' 
And there he told a long long-winded tale 
Of how the Squire had seen the colt at grass. 
And how it was the thing liis daughter wish'd, 
And how he sent the bailiff to the farm 
To learn the price, and what' the price he ask'd, 
And how the bailiff swore that he was mad. 
But he stood firm ; and so the matter hung ; 



430 THE BROOK. 

He gave them line : and five days after that 

He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece, 

Who then and there had offer'd something more, 

But he stood firm ; and so the matter hung ; 

He knew the man ; -the colt would fetch its price ; 

He gave them line : and how by chance at last 

(It might be May or April, he forgot. 

The last of April or the first of May) 

He found the bailiff riding by the farm, 

And, talking from the point, he drew him in, 

And there he mellow'd all his heart with ale, 

Until they closed a bargain, hand in hand. 

" Then, while I breathed in sight of haven, he, 
Poor fellow, could he help it ? recommenced, 
And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle. 
Wild Will, Black Bess, Tantivy, TaUyho, 
Reform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the Jilt, 
Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the rest, 
Till, not to die a listener, I arose. 
And with me Philip, talking still ; and so 
We turn'd our foreheads from the falling sun. 
And following our own shadows thrice as long 
As when they follow'd us from Philip's door. 
Arrived, and found the sun of sweet content 
Rerisen in Katie's eyes, and all things well. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel-covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. 
Among my skimming swallows ; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses ; 
I linger by my shingly bars ; 

I loiter round my cresses ; 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on forever. 



TIIK J$KOOK. 431 

Yes, men may come and go ; and these are gone, 

All gone. My dearest brother, Edmund, sleeps, 

Not by the well-known stream and rustic spire, 

But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome 

Of Brunelleschi ; sleeps in peace : and he, 

Poor Philip, of aJl his lavish waste of words 

Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb : 

I scraped the lichen from it : Katie walks 

By the long wash of Australasian seas 

Far off, and holds her heads to other stars, 

And breathes in converse seasons. All are gone." 

So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a style 
In the long hedge, and rolling ia his mind 
Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er the brook 
A tonsured head in middle age forlorn, 
Mused, and was mute. On a sudden a low breath 
Of tender air made tremble in the hedge 
The fragile bindweed-bells and briony rings ; 
And he look'd up. There stood a maiden near, 
AVaiting to pass. In much amaze he stared 
On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit within : 
Then, wondering, ask'd her, "Are you from the farm ? " 
" Yes," answer'd she. " Pray stay a little : pardon me ; 
What do they call you ? " " Katie." " That were strange. 
What surname ? " " Willows." " No ! " " That is my 

name." 
" Indeed ! " and here he look'd so self-perplext, 
That Katie laugh'd, and laughing blush'd, till he 
Laugh'd also, but as one before he wakes. 
Who feels a glimmering strangeness in his dream. 
Then looking at her ; " Too happy, fresh and fair, 
Too fresh and fair in our sad world's best bloom, 
To be the ghost of one who bore your name 
About these meadows, twenty years ago." 

" Have you not heard ? " said Katie, " we came back. 
AVe bought the farm we tenanted before. 
Am I so like her ? so they said on board. 
Sir, if you knew her in her English days, 
INIy mother, as it seems you did, the days 
That most she loves to talk of, come with me. 
My brother James is in the harvest-field : 
But she — you will be welcome — O, come in ! " 



THE LETTERS. 

1. 

Still on the tower stood the vane, 
A black yew glooni'd the stagnant air, 

I peer'd athwart the chancel-pane 
And saw the altar cold and bare. 




A clog- of lead was round my feet, 
A band of pain across my brow ; 

" Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall meet 
Before you hear my marriage-vow." 



THE LETTERS. 433 

2. 

I turn'd and liuram'd a bitter song 

That mock'd the wholesome human heart, 
And then we met in wrath and wrong, 

We met, but only meant to part. 
Full cold my greeting was and dry ; 

She faintly smiled, she hardly moved ; 
I saw with half-unconscious eye 

She wore the colors I approved. 
3. 
She took the little ivory chest. 

With half a sigh she turn'd the key. 
Then raised her head with lips comprest. 

And gave my letters back to me. 
And gave the trinkets and the rings, 

My gifts, Avhen gifts of mine could please ; 
As looks a father on the things 

Of his dead son, I look'd on these. 
4. 
She told me aU her friends had said ; 

I raged against the public liar ; 
She talk'd as if her love were dead, 

But in my words were seeds of fire. 
»" No more of love ; your sex is known : 

I never will be twice deceived. 
Henceforth I trust the man alone, 

The woman cannot be believed.! 
5. 
" Thro' slander, meanest spawn of Hell 

(And women's slander is the worst), 
And you, whom once I loved so well. 

Thro' you, my life will be accurst." 
I spoke with heart, and heat and force, 

I shook her breast with vague alarms — 
Like torrents from a mountain source 

We rush'd into each other's arms. 
6. 
We parted : sweetly gleam'd the stars. 

And sweet the vapor-braided blue, 
LoAv breezes fann'd the belfry-bars, 

As homeward by the church I drew. 
The very graves appear'd to smile, 

So fresh they rose in shadow'd swells ; 
" Dark porch," I said, " and silent aisle. 

There comes a sound of marriage-bells." 
28 



434 ODE ON THE DEATH OF 

ODE ON THE DEATH 

OF 

THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 

1. 
Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation, 
Let us "bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation, 
Mourning when their leaders fall. 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall, 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 

2. 
Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore ? 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought for, 
And the feet of those he fought for, 
Echo round his bones for evermore. 

3. 
Lead out the pageant : sad and slow, 
As fits an universal woe. 
Let the long, long procession go. 
And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, 
And let the mournful martial music blow ; 
The last great Englishman is low. 

4. 
Mourn, for to us he seems the last, 
E.emembering all his greatness in the Past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute : 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute. 
Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest influence, 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime. 
Our greatest yet with least pretence. 
Great in council and great in war, 
Foremost captain of his time, 
Rich in saving common-sense. 
And, as the greatest only are. 
In his simplicity sublime. 
O good gray head Avhich all men knew. 



THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 435 

O voice from wlilcli their omens all men drew, 

O iron nerve to true occasion true, 

O fall'n at length that tower of strength 

Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew ! 

Such was he Avhom we deplore. 

The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 

The great AYorld-victor's victor will be seen no more. 

5. 
All Is over and done : 
Render thanks to the Giver, 
England, for thy son. 
Let the bell be toll'd. 
Render thanks to the Giver, 
And render him to the mould. 
Under the cross of gold 
That shines over city and river, 
There he shall rest forever 
Among the wise and the bold. 
Let the bell be toll'd : 
And a reverent people behold 
The towering car, the sable steeds : 
Bright let It be with its blazon'd deeds, 
Dark in its funeral fold. 
Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd ; 
And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'd 
Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; 
And the volleying cannon thunder his loss ; 
He knew their voices of old. 
For many a time In many a clime 
His captain's-ear has heard them boom 
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom : 
When he with those deep voices wrought. 
Guarding realms and kings from shame ; 
With those deep voices our dead captain taught 
The tyrant, and asserts his claim 
In that dread sound to the great name. 
Which he has Avorn so pure of blame, 
In praise and In dispraise the same, 
A man of Avell-attemper'd frame. 
O civic muse, to such a name. 
To such a name for ages long. 
To such a name, 

Preserve a broad approach of fame, 
And ever-rlng-ins: avenues of sons:. 



436 ODE ON THE DEATH OF 

6. 
Who is he that cometh, like an honor'd guest, 
With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest, 
With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest ? 
Mighty seaman, this is he 
Was great by land as thou by sea. 
Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, 
The greatest sailor since our world began. 
Now, to the roll of muffled drums. 
To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 
For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea; 
His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 
O give him welcome, this is he 
Worthy of our gorgeous rites. 
And worthy to be laid by thee ; 
For this is England's greatest son, 
He that gain'd a hundred fights. 
Nor ever lost an English gun ; 
This is he that far aAvay 
Against the myriads of Assaye 
Clash'd with his fiery few and won; 
And underneath another sun. 
Warring on a later day. 
Hound affrighted Lisbon drew 
The treble works, the vast designs 
Of his labor'd rampart-lines. 
Where he greatly stood at bay, 
Whence he issued forth anew. 
And ever great and greater grew, 
Beating from the wasted vines 
Back to France her banded swarms, 
Back to France with countless blows, 
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 
Beyond the Pyrenean pines, 
Follow'd up in valley and glen 
With blare of bugle, clamor of men. 
Roll of cannon and clash of arms, 
And England pouring on her foes. 
Such a war had such a close. 
Again their ravening eagle rose 
In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wings, 
And barking for the thrones of kings ; 
Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown 
On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down ; 



THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 437 

A day of onsets of despair ! 

Dasli'd on every rocky scpare 

Their surging charges foam'd themselves away ; 

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 

Tlu'o' the long-tormented air 

Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray,. 

And down we swept and charged and overthrew. 

So great a soldier tauo-lit us there, 

What long-enduring hearts could do 

In that world's-earthquake, Waterloo ! 

Mighty seaman, tender and true. 

And pure as he from taint of craven guile, 

O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 

O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 

If aught of things that here befall 

Touch a spirit among things divine. 

If love of country move thee there at all, 

Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine ! 

And thro' the centuries let a people's voice 

In full acclaim, 

A people's voice, 

The i^roof and echo of all human fame, 

A people's voice, when they rejoice 

At civic revel and pomp and game. 

Attest their grecit commander's claim 

With honor, honor, honor, honor to him. 

Eternal honor to his name. 

7. 
A people's voice ! we are a peo23le yet. 
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget. 
Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers ; 
Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set 
His Briton in blown seas and storming showers. 
We have a voice, with which to pay the debt 
Of boundless love and reverence and regret 
To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. 
And keep it ours, O God, from brute control ; 
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, 
And save the one true seed of freedom sown 
Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, 
That sober freedom out of which there springs 
Our loyal passion for our temperate kings ; 
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind 
Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, 



438 ODE ON THE DEATH OF 

. And drill the raw world for tlie march of mind, 
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just. 
But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 
Remember him who led your hosts ; 
He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 
Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall ; 
His voice is silent in your council-hall 
Forever ; and whatever tempests lour 
Forever silent ; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent ; yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke ; 
Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, 
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power ; 
Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow 
Thro' either babbling world of high and low ; 
Whose life was work, whose language rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 
Who never spoke against a foe ; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke 
All great self-seekers trampling on the right : 
Truth-teller Avas our England's Alfred named ; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 
Whatever record leap to light 
He never shall be shamed. 
8. 
Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
Follow'd by the brave of other lands, 
Hq, on whom from both her open hands 
Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars, 
And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. 
Yea, let all good things await 
Him who cares not to be great. 
But as he saves or serves the state. 
Not once or twice in our rough island-story, 
The path of duty was the way to glory : 
He that walks it, only thirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey closes. 
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 
Into glossy purples, which out-redden 
All voluptuous garden-roses. 
Not once or twice In our fair island-story. 
The path of duty was the way to glory : 
He, that ever following her commands. 



THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 439 

On with toil of heart and knees and hands, 

Thro' the lono- ooi-o-e to the far lioht has won 

His path npwar<l, and prevail'd, . 

Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled 

Are close upon the shining table-lands . 

To which our God Himself is moon and sun. 

Sli 'h was he : his work is done, 

But while the races of mankind endure, 

Let his great example stand 

Colossal, seen of every land, 

And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure ; 

Till in all lands and thro' all human story 

The path of duty be the way to glory : 

And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame 

For many and many an age proclaim 

At civic revel and pomp and game. 

And when the long-illumined cities flame, 

Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, 

With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 

Eternal honor to his name. 

9. 
Peace, his triumph will be sung 
By some yet unmoulded tongue 
Far on in summers that we shall not see : 
Peace, it is a day of pain 
For one about whose patriarchal knee 
Late the little children clung : 
O peace, it is a day of pain 
For one, upon whose hand and heart and brain 
Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 
Ours the pain, be his the gain ! 
More than is of man's degi'ee 
Must be with us, watching here 
At this, our great solemnity. 
Whom we see not we revere. 
We revere, and we refrain 
From talk of battles loud and vain, 
And brawling memories all too free 
For such a wise humility 
As befits a solemn fane : 
We revere, and while we hear 
The tides of Music's golden sea 
Setting toward eternity, 
Uphfted high in heart and hope are we. 
Until we doubt not that for one so true 



440 THE DAISY. 

There must be other nobler work to do 
Than when he fought at Waterloo, 
And Victor he must ever be. 
For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 
And break the shore, and evermore 
Make and break, and work their will ; 
Tho' world on world in m^Tiad myriads roll 
Kound us, each Avith different powers, 
And other forms of life than ours. 
What know we greater than the soul ? 
On God and Godlike men we build our trust. 
Hush, the Dead March waiLs in the people's ears : 
The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears 
The black earth yawns : the mortal disappears ; 
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 
He is gone who seem'd so great. — 
Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 
Of the force he made his own 
Being here, and we believe him 
Something far advanced in state, 
And that he wears a truer crown 
Than any wreath that man can weave him. 
Speak no more of his renown, 
Lay your earthly fancies down. 
And in the vast cathedral leave him. 
God accept him, Christ receive him. 
1852. 



THE DAISY. 

WKITTEN AT EDINBURGH. 

O LOVE, what hours were thine and mine, 
In lands of palm and southern pine ; 

In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, 
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. 

What Eoman strength Turbia show'd 
In ruin, by the mountain-road ; 

How like a gem, beneath, the city 
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd. 



How richly down the rocky dell 
The torrent vineyard streaming fell 



THE DAISY. 441 

To meet the sun and sunny waters, 
That only heaved with a summer swell. 

What slender campanili grew 

By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ; 

Where, here and there, on sandy beaches 
A milky-bell'd amaryUis blew. 

How young Columbus seem'd to rove, 
Yet present in his natal grove, 

Now watching high on mountain-cornice. 
And steering, now, from a purple cove, 

Now pacing mute by ocean's rim ; 
Till, in a narrow street and dim, 

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, 
And drank, and loyally drank to him. 

Nor knew we well what pleased us most, 
Not the dipt palm of which they boast ; 

But distant color, happy hamlet, 
A moulder'd citadel on the coast, 

Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen 
A light amid its olives green ; 

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ; 
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine, 

Where oleanders flush'd the bed 
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread ; 

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 
Of ice, far up on a mountain head. 

We loved that hall, tho' white and cold, 
Those niched shapes of noble mould, 
A princely people's awful princes. 
The grave, severe Genovese of old. 

At Florence too what golden hours. 
In those long galleries, were ours; 

What drives about the fresh Cascine, 
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. 

In bright vignettes, and each complete, 
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet. 



442 THE DAISY. 

Or palace, how the city glitter'd, 
Thro' cypress-avenues, at our feet. 

But when we crost the Lombard plain 
Kemember what a plague of rain ; 

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma; m 
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. 

And stern and sad (so rare the smiles 
Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles ; 

Porch-pillars on the lion resting, 
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. 

Milan, O the chanting quires. 
The giant windows' blazon'd fires, 

The height, the space, the gloom, the glory ! 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires ! 

1 climb'd the roofs at break of day ; 
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. 

I stood among the silent statues, 
And statued pinnacles, mute as they. 

How faintly flush'd, how phantom-fair, 
Was Monte Rosa, hanging there 

A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys 
And snowy dells in a golden air. 

Remember how we came at last 

To Como ; shower and storm and blast 

Had blown the lake beyond his limit, " 
And all was flooded ; and how we past 

From Como, when the light was gray. 
And in my head, for half the day. 

The rich Virgilian rustic measure 
Of Lari Maxume, all the way, 

Like ballad-burden music, kept, 
As on the Lariano crept 

To that fair port below the castle 
Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept ; 

Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake 
A cypress in the moonlight shake, 



TO THE EEV. F. D. MAURICE. 443 

The moonlight touching^ o'er a terrace 
One tall Agave above the lake. 

What more ? we took our last adieu, 
And up the snowy Splugen drew, 

But ere we reach'd the highest summit 
I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. 

It told of England then to me, 
And now it tells of Italy. 

O love, we two shall go no longer 
To lands of summer across the sea ; 

So dear a life your arms enfold 
Whose crying is a cry for gold : 

Yet here to-night in this dark city, 
When ill and weary, alone and cold, 

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry, 
This nurseling of another sky 

Still in the little book you lent me, 
And where you tenderly laid it by : 

And I forgot the clouded Forth, 

The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth, 

The bitter east, the misty summer 
And gray metropolis of the North. 

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, 
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain. 

Perchance, to dream you still beside me, 
My fancy fled to the South again. 



TO THE EEV. F. D. MAURICE. 

Come, when no graver cares employ, 
God-father, come and see your boy: 

Your presence will be sun in winter, 
Making the little one leap for joy. 

For, being of that honest few, 

Who give the Fiend himself his due. 



444 TO THE KEV. F. D. MAURICE. 

Should eighty thousand college-councils 
Thunder "Anathema," friend, at you ; 

Should all our churchmen foam in spite 
At you, so careful of the right, 

Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome 
(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight ; 

Where, far from noise and smoke of town, 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless-order'd garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

You '11 have no scandal while you dine, 
But honest talk and wholesome wine. 

And only hear the magpie gossip 
Garrulous under a roof of pine : 

For groves of pine on either hand, 
To break the blast of winter, stand ; 
And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand ; 

Where, if below the milky steep 
Some ship of battle slowly creep. 

And on thro' zones of light and shadow 
Glimmer away to the lonely deep, 

We might discuss the Northern sin 
Which made a selfish war begin ; 

Dispute the claims, arrange the chances ; 
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win : 

Or whether war's avenging rod 
Shall lash all Europe into blood; 

Till you should turn to dearer matters, 
Dear to the man that is dear to God ; 

How best to help the slender store, 
How mend the dwellings, of the poor ; 

How gain in life, as life advances. 
Valor and charity more and more. 

Come, Maurice, come : the lawn as yet 
Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet ; 



445 



But when the wreath of March has blossom'd, 
Crocus, anemone, violet. 

Or later, pay one visit here, 

For those are few we hold as dear ; 

Nor pay but one, but come for many, 
Many and many a happy year. 
January., 1854. 

WILL. 

1. 
O WELL for him whose will is strong ! 
He suffers, but he will not suffer long ; 
He suffei-s, but he cannot suffer wrong : 
For him nor moves the loud world's random mock, 
Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound, 
"Who seems a promontory of rock, 
That, compass'd round with turbulent sound. 
In middle ocean meets the surging shock, 
Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd. 

2. 
But ill for him who, bettering not with time, 
Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended Will, 
And ever weaker grows thro' acted crime. 
Or seeming-genial venial fault, 
Recurring and suggesting still ! 
He seems as one whose footsteps halt, 
Toiling in immeasurable sand, 
And o'er a weary sultry land, 
Far beneath a blazing vault. 
Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill, 
The city sparkles like a grain of salt. 

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 

1. 
( Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward. 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
" Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
" Charge for the guns ! " he said : 
Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 



446 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 

2. 
" Forward, the Light Brigade ! *' 
Was there a man dismay'd ? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had bkinderVl : 
Their's not to make reply, 
Their's not to reason why, 
Their's but to do and die ; 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
3. 
Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell. 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 
4. 
Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air, 
Sabring the gunners there. 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder'd: 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre stroke 

Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not 

Not the six hundred. 
5. 
Cannon to right of them. 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horee and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them. 

Left of six hundred. 



DEDICATION. 447 

6. 
When can their glory fade ? 
O the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 



IDYLLS OF THE KING. 

DEDICATION. 

These to His Memory — since he held them dear, 
Perchance as finding there unconsciously 
Some image of himself — I dedicate, 
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears — 
These Idylls. 

And indeed He seems to me 
Scarce other than my own ideal knight, 
" Who reverenced his conscience as his king ; 
Whose glory was, redressing human wrong ; 
Who spake no slander, no, nor listen'd to it ; 
Who loved one only and who clave to her " — 
Her — over all whose realms to their last isle, 
Commingled with the gloom of imminent war. 
The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse, 
Darkening the world. We have lost him : he is gone : 
We know him now : all narrow jealousies 
Are silent ; and we see him as he moved. 
How modest, kindly, all-accomplish'd, wise, 
With what sublime repression of himself. 
And in what limits, and how tenderly ; 
Not swaying to this faction or to that ; 
Not making his high place the lawless perch 
Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage-ground 
For pleasure ; but thro' all this tract of years 
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life. 
Before a thousand peering littlenesses. 
In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, 
And blackens every blot : for where is he, 
Who dares foreshadow for an only son 
A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than his ? 
Or how should England dreaming of his sons 



448 DEDICATION. 

Hope more for these than some inheritance 
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, 
Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, 
Laborious for her people and her poor — 
Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day — 
Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste 
To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace — 
Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam 
Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 
Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed, 
Beyond all titles, and a household name, 
Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Good. 

Break not, O woman's-heart, but still endure ; 
Break not, for thou art Boyal, but endure. 
Remembering all the beauty of that star 
Which shone so close beside Thee, that ye made 
One light together, but has past and leaves 
The Crown a lonely splendor. 

May all love, 
His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee, 
The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee, 
The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee, 
The love of all Thy people comfort Thee, 
Till God's love set Thee at his side again ! 




ENia 



TiiK brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's coui-t, 
A tributary prince of Devon, one 
Of tliat great order of the Table Round, 
Had married Enid, Yniol's only child. 
And loved her, as he loved the light of Heaven. 
And as the light of Heaven varies, now 
At sunrise, now at sunset, now by niglit 
With moon and trembling stars, so loved Geraint 
To make her beauty vary day by day. 
In crimsons and in purples and in gems. 
And Enid, but to please her husband's eye, 
Who first had found and loved her in a state 
Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him 
In some fresh splendor; and the Queen herself, 
Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done, 
Loved her, and often with her own white hands 
Array'd and deck'd her, as the loveliest, 
Next after her own self, in all the court. 
And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart 
Adored her, as the stateliest and the best 
And loveliest of all women upon earth. 
And seeing them so tender and so close, 
I^ong in their common love rejoiced Geraint. 
But when a rumor rose about the Queen, 
Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, 
Tho' yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard 
The world's loud whisper breaking into storm, 
20 



450 



]*^ot less Geraint believed it ; and there fell 

A horror on him, lest his gentle wife, 

Thro' that great tenderness for Guinevere, 

Had suffer'd, or should suffer any taint 

In nature : ■wherefore going to the king, 

He made this pretext, that his princedom hiy 

Close on the Ijorders of a territory, 

AVherein Avere bandit earls, and caitiff knights. 

Assassins, and all flyers from the hand 

Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law : 

And therefore, till the king himself should please 

To cleanse this common-sewer of all his realm, 

He craved a fair permission to depart. 

And there defend his marches ; and the king 

Mused for a little on his plea, but, last, 

Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode, 

And fifty knights rode Avith them, to the shores 

Of Severn, and they past to their own land ; 

AVhere, thinking, that If ever yet was Avife 

T)-ue to her lord, mine shall be so to me, 

He compass'd her Avith SAvcet observances 

And Avorship, never leaving her, and grew 

Forgetful of his promise to the king. 

Forgetful of the filcon and tlie hunt, 

Forgetful of the tilt and tournament. 

Forgetful of his glory and his name, 

Forgetful of his princedom and its cares. 

And this forgetfulness Avas hateful to her. 

And by and by the people, Avhen they met 

In tAvos and threes, or fuller companies, 

Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him 

As of a prince Avhose manhood Avas all gone. 

And. molten doAvn in mere uxoriousness. 

And this she gather'd from the people's eyes : 

This too the Avomen Avho attired her head. 

To please her, dwelling on his boundless love, 

Told Enid, and they sadden'd her the more • 

And day by day she thought to tell Geraint, 

But could not out of bashful delicacy ; 

While he that Avatch'd her sadden, Avas the more 

Suspicious that her nature had a taint. 

At last, it chanced that on a summer morn 
(They sleeping each by other) the new sun 
Beat thro' the blindless casement of the room, 
And heated the strong warrior in his dreams ; 



ENID. ' 451 

Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, 
And bared the knotted column of his throat, 
The massive square of his heroic breast. 
And arms on v^-liich the standing muscle sloped, 
As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone, 
Running too vehemently to break upon it. 
And Enid woke and sat beside the couch. 
Admiring him, and thought within herself, 
Was ever man so grandly made as he ? 
Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk 
And accusation of uxoriousness 
Across her mind, and bowing over him. 
Low to her own heart piteously she said : 

" O noble breast and all-puissant arms. 
Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men 
Reproach you, saying all your force is gone ? 
I am the cause because I dare not speak 
And tell him what I think and what they say. 
And yet I hate that he should linger here ; 
I cannot love my lord and not his name. 
Far liever had I gird his harness on him. 
And ride with him to battle and stand by. 
And watch his mightful hand striking great blows 
At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world. 
Far better were 1 laid in the dark earth, 
Not hearing any more his noJ)le voice. 
Not to be folded more in these dear arms. 
And darken'd from the high light in his eyes, 
Than that my lord thro' me should suffer shame. 
Am I so bold, and could I so stand by, 
And see my dear lord wounded in the strife, 
Or may be pierced to death before mine eyes, 
And yet not dare to tell him what I think, 
And how men slur him, saying all his force 
Is melted into mere effeminacy ? 
O me, I fear that I am no true wife." 

Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke. 
And the strong passion in her made her weep 
True tears upon his broad and naked breast, 
And these awoke him, and by great mischance 
He heard but fragments of her later words, 
And that she fear'd she was not a true wife. 
And then he thought, " In spite of all my care. 
For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains. 



452 ENID. 

She is not faithful to me, and I see her 
Weeping for some gay knight in Arthm-'s hall." 
Then tho' he loved and reverenced her too much 
To dream she could be guilty of foul act, 
Right thro' his manful breast darted the pang 
That makes a man, in the sweet face of her 
"VYhom he loves most, lonely and miserable. 
At this he hm4'd his huge limbs out of bed, 
And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, 
" My charger and her palfrey," then to her, 
" I will ride forth into the wilderness ; 
For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to win, 
I have not fall'n so low as some would wish. 
And you, put on your worst and meanest dress 
And ride with me." And Enid ask'd, amazed, 
" If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault." 
But he, " I charge you, ask not but obey." 
Then she bethought her of a faded silk, 
A faded mantle and a faded veil. 
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, 
Wherein she kept them folded reverently 
With sprigs of summer laid between the folds. 
She took them, and array'd herself therein, 
Remembering when first he came on her 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, 
And all her foolish fears about the dress. 
And all his journey to .her, as himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the court. 

For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before 
Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. 
There on a day,^ he sitting high in hall, 
Before him came a forester of Dean, 
Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart 
Taller than all his fellows, milky-white, 
First seen that day : these things he told the king. 
Then the good king gave order to let blow 
His horns for hunting on the morrow morn. 
And when the Queen petition 'd for his leave 
To see the hunt, allow'd it easily. 
So with the morning all the court were gone. 
But Guinevere lay late into the morn, 
Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her love 
For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt ; 
But rose at last, a single maiden with her. 
Took horse, and forded Usk, and gain'd the wood ; 



ENID. 453 

There, on a little knoll beside it, stay'd 

Waiting to hear the hounds ; but heard instead 

A sudden soiuid of hoofs, for Prince Geraint, 

Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress 

Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand. 

Came quickly flashing thro' the shallow ford 

Behind theni, and so gallop'd up the knoll. 

A purple scarf, at either end whereof 

There swung an apple of the purest gold, 

Sway'd round about hira, as he gallop'd up 

To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly 

In summer suit and silks of holiday. 

Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and she, • 

Sweetly and statelily, and with all grace 

Of womanhood and queenhood, answer'd him : 

"Late, late, Sir Prince," she said, "later than we!" 

" Yea, noble Queen," he answer'd, " and so late 

That I but come like you to see the hunt. 

Not join it." " Therefore wait with me," she said ; 

" For on this little knoll, if anywhere. 

There is good chance that we shall hear the hounds : 

Here often they break covert at our feet." 

And while they listen'd for the distant hunt, 
And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, 
King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth, there rode 
Pull slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf; 
Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and the knight 
Had visor up, and show'd a youthful face, 
Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments. 
And Guinevere, not mindful of his face 
In the king's hall, desired his name, and sent 
Her maiden to demand It of the dwarf; 
Who being vicious, old and irritable, 
And doubling all his master's vice of pride. 
Made answer sharply that she should not know. 
" Then will I ask it of himself," she said. 
" Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not," cried the dwarf, 
" Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak of him ; " 
And when she put her horse toward the knight, 
Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; at which Geraint 
Exclaiming, " Surely I will learn the name," 
Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd it of him, 
Who answer'd as before ; and when the Prince 



454 



Had put his horse in motion toward the knight, 
Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek. 
The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf. 
Dyeing it ; and his quick, instinctive hand 
Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him : 
But he, from his exceeding manfulness 
And pure nobility of temperament, 
Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrain'd 
From ev'n a word, and so returning, said : 

" I will avenge this Insult, noble Queen, 
Done In your maiden's person to yourself: 
And I will -track this vermin to their earths : 
For tho' I ride unarm'd, I do not doubt 
To find, at some place I shall come at, arms 
On loan, or else for pledge ; and, being found. 
Then will I fight him, and will break his pride, 
And on the third day, will again be here, 
So that I be not fall'n in fight. Farewell," 

" Farewell, fair Prince," answer'd the stately Queen. 
" Be prosperous In this journey, as in all ; 
And may you light on all things that you love. 
And live to wed with her whom first you love : 
But ere you wed with any, bring your bride. 
And I, were she the daughter of a king, 
Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the hedge, 
Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun." 

And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard 
The noble hart at bay, now the far horn, 
A little vext at losing of the hunt; 
A little at the vile occasion, rode. 
By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy glade 
And valley, with fixt eye following the three. 
At last they Issued from the world of wood. 
And climb'd upon a fair and even ridge. 
And show'd themselves against the sky, and sank. 
And thither came Geraint, and underneath 
Beheld the long street of a little town 
In a long valley, on one side of which. 
White from the mason's hand, a fortress rose ; 
And on one side a castle in decay. 
Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry ravine : 
And out of town and valley came a noise 



455 



As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed 
Brawling, or like a clamor of the rooks 
At distance, ere they settle for the night. 



And enter'd, and were lost behind the walls. 

" So,'" thought Geraint, " I have track'd him to his earth. 

And down the long street riding wearily, 

Found every hostel full, and everywhere 

Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss 

And bustling whistle of the youth who scour'd 

His master's armor ; and of such a one 

He ask'd, " What means the tumult in the town ? " 

Who told him, scouring still, " The sparrow-hawk ! " 

Then riding close behind an ancient churl. 

Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam. 

Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, 

Ask'd yet once more what meant the hubbub here ? 

Who answer'd gruiEHy, " Ugh ! the sparrow-hawk." 

Then riding further past an armorer's. 

Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd above his work, 

Sat riveting a helmet on his knee. 

He put the selfsame query, but the man, 

Not turning round, nor looking at him, said : 

" Friend, he that labors for the sparrow-hawk 

Has little time for idle questioners." 

"VNHaereat Geraint flash'd into sudden spleen : 

"A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk ! 

Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings peck him dead ! 

Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg 

The murmur of the world ! What is it to me ? 

O wretched set of sparrows, one and all. 

Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks ! 

Speak, if you be not like the rest, hawk-mad. 

Where can I get me harborage for the night ? 

And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy ? Speak ! ** 

At this the armorer turning all amazed 

And seeing one so gay in purple silks. 

Came forward with the helmet yet in hand 

And answer'd, " Pardon me, O stranger knight ; 

We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn. 

And there is scantly time for half the work. 

Arms ? truth ! I know not : all are wanted here. 

Harborage ? truth, good truth, I know not, save, 

It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the bridge 

Yonder." He spoke and fell to work again. 



456 ENID. 

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet, 
Across the bridge that spann'd the dry ravine. 
There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl, 
(His dress a suit of fray'd magnificence, 
Once fit for feasts of ceremony,) and said : 
" Whither, fair son ? " to whom Geraint replied, 
" friend, I seek a harborage for the night." 
Then Yniol, " Enter therefore and partake 
The slender entertainment of a house 
Once rich, now poor, but ever open-door'd." 
" Thanks, venerable friend," replied Geraint ; 
" So that you do not serve me sparrow-hawks 
For supper, I will enter, I will eat 
With all the passion of a twelve-hours' fast." 
Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary-headed Earl, 
And answer'd, " Graver cause than yours is mine 
To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk: 
But in, go in ; for save yourself desire it. 
We will not touch upon him ev'n in jest." 

Then rode Geraint into the castle-court, 
His charger trampling many a prickly star 
Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones. 
He look'd and saw that all was ruinous. 
Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed with fern ; 
And here had fall'n a great part of a tower. 
Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff, 
And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers: 
And high above a piece of turret-stair, 
Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound 
Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems 
Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms. 
And suck'd the joining of the stones, and look'd 
A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove. 

And while he waited in the castle-court, 
The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang 
Clear thro' the open casement of the Hall, 
Singing ; and as the sweet voice of a bird, 
Heard by the lander in a lonely isle. 
Moves him to think what kind of bird it is 
That sings so delicately clear, and make 
Conjecture of the plumage and the form ; 
So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint ; 
And made him like a man abroad at morn 



457 



When first the liquid note beloved of men 

Comes flying over many a windy wave 

To Britain, and in April suddenly 

Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green and red, 

And he suspends his converse with a friend, 

Or it may be the labor of his hands, 

To think or say, " There is the nightingale ; " 

So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said, 

" Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for me." 

It chanced the song that Enid sang was one 
Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang : 

" Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud ; 
Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. 

" Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown ; 
With that wild wheel we go not up or -down ; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. 

" Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands ; 
Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands ; 
For man is man and master of his fate. 

" Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd ; 
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate." 

" Hark, by the bird's song you may learn the nestj" 
Said Yniol ; " Enter quickly." Entering then, 
Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones. 
The dusky-rafter'd, many-cobweb'd Hall, 
He found an ancient dame in dim brocade,- 
And near her, like a blossom vermeil-white, 
That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath. 
Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk. 
Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint, 
" Here by God's rood is the one maid for me." 
But none spake word except the hoary Earl : 
" Enid, the good knight's horse stands in the court ; 
Take him to stall, and give him corn, and then 
Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine ; 
And we will make us merry as we may. 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great." 



4o8 ENID. 

He spake : the Prince, as Enid past him, fain 
To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol caught 
His purple scarf, and held, and said, " Forbear ! 
Rest ! the good house, tho' ruin'd, O my son, 
Endures not that her guest should serve himself." 
And reverencing the custom of the house 
Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore. 

So Enid took his charger to the stall ; 
And after went her way across the bridge, 
And reach'd the town, and while the Prince and Earl 
Yet spoke together, came again with one, 
A youth, that following vdth a costrel bore 
The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine. 
And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer, 
And in her veil enfolded, manchet-bread. 
And then, because their hall must also serve 
For kitchen, boil'd the flesh, and spread the board. 
And stood behind, and waited on the three. 
And seeing her so sweet and serviceable, 
Geraint had longing in him evermore 
To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb. 
That crost the trencher as she laid it down : 
But after all had eaten, then Geraint, 
For now the wine made summer in his veins, 
Let his eye rove in following, or rest 
On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work. 
Now here, now there, about the dusky hall ; 
Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl : 

" Fair Host and Earl, I pray your courtesy ; 
This sparrow-hawk, what is he, tell me of him. 
His name ? but no, good faith, I will not have it : 
For if he be the knight whom late I saw 
Ride into that new fortress by your town, 
White from the mason's hand, then have I sworn 
From his own lips to have it — I am Geraint 
Of Devon — for this morning when the Queen 
Sent her own maiden to demand the name, 
His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing. 
Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; and then I swore 
That I would track this caitiff" to his hold. 
And fight and break his pride, and have it of him. 
And all unarm'd I rode, and thought to find 



459 



Arms in your town, where all the men are mad ; 
They take the rustic murmur of their bourg 
For the great wave that echoes round the world ; 
They would not hear me speak : but if you know 
Where I can light on arms, or if yourself 
Should have them, tell me, seeing I have sworn 
That I will break his pride and learn his name, 
Avenging this great insult done the Queen." 

Then cried Earl Yniol, "Art thou he indeed, 
Geraint, a name far-sounded among men 
For noble deeds ? and truly I, when first 
I saw you moving by me on the bridge, 
Felt you were somewhat, yea and by your state 
And presence might have guess'd you one of those 
That eat in Arthur's hall at Camelot. 
Nor speak I now from foolish flattery ; 
For this dear child hath often heard me praise 
Your feats of arms, and often when I paused 
Hath ask'd again, and ever loved to hear ; 
So grateful is the noise of noble deeds 
To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong : 

never yet had woman such a pair 

Of suitors as this maiden ; first Limours, 
A creature wholly given to brawls and wine, 
Drunk even when he woo'd ; and be he dead 

1 know not, but he past to the wild land. 
The second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk. 
My curse, my nephew — I will not let his name 
Slip from my lips if I can help it — he, 
When I that knew him fierce and turbulent 
Refused her to him, then his pride awoke ; 
And since the proud man often is the mean, 
He sow'd a slander in the common ear, 
Affirming that his father left him gold. 

And in my charge, which was not render'd to him ; 

Bribed with large promises the men who served 

About my person, the more easily 

Because my means were somewhat broken into 

Thro' open doors and hospitality ; 

Raised my own town against me in the night 

Before my Enid's birthday, sack'd my house ; 

From mine own earldom foully ousted me ; 

Built that new fort to overawe my friends, 

For truly there are those who love me yet ; 



460 ENID. 

And keeps me In this ruinous castle here, 
Where doubtless he would put me soon to death, 
But that his pride too much despises me : 
And I myself sometimes despise myself; 
For I have let men be, and have their way ; 
Am much too gentle, have not used my power : 
Nor know I whether I be very base 
Or very manful, whether very wise 
Or very foolish ; only this I know, 
That whatsoever evil happen to me, 
I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb. 
But can endure it all most patiently." 

" Well said, true heart," replied Geraint, " but arms 
That if, as I suppose, your nephew fights 
In next day's tourney, I may break his pride." 

And Yniol answer'd, '-Arms, indeed, but old 
And rusty, old and rusty, Prince Geraint, 
Are mine, and therefore at your asking, yours. 
But in this tournament can no man tilt. 
Except the lady he loves best be there. 
Two forks are fixt into the meadow-ground, 
And over these is laid a silver wand, 
And over that is placed the sparrow-hawk, 
The prize of beauty for the fairest there. 
And this, what knight soever be in field 
Lays claim to for the lady at his side, 
And tilts with my good nephew thereupon, 
Who being apt at arms and big of bone 
Has ever won it for the lady with him, 
And toppling over all antagonism 
Has earn'd himself the name of sparrow-hawk. 
But you, that have no lady, cannot fight." 

To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied, 
Leaning a little toward him, '• Your leave ! 
Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host, 
For this dear child, because I never saw, 
Tho' having seen all beauties of our time, 
Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair. 
And if I fall her name will yet remain 
Untarnish'd as before ; but if I live. 
So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost, 
As I will make her truly my true wife." 



461 



Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's heart 
Danced in his bosom, seeing better days. 
And looking round he saw not Enid there, 
(Who hearing her own name had shpt away) 
But that old dame, to whom full tenderly 
And fondling all her hand in his he said, 
" Mother, a maiden is a tender thing. 
And best by her that bore her understood. 
Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest 
Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince." 

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she 
With fre(jucnt smile and nod departing found, 
Half disarray 'd as to her rest, the girl ; 
Whom first she kiss'd on either cheek, and then 
On either shining shoulder laid a hand. 
And kept her off" and gazed upon her face. 
And told her all their converse In the hall, 
Proving her heart : but never light and shade 
Coursed one another more on open ground 
Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale 
Across the face of Enid hearing her ; 
While slowly falling as a scale that falls. 
When weight Is added only grain by grain, 
Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast ; 
Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word, 
Bapt in the fear and in the wonder of it ; — 
So moving without answer to her rest 
She found no rest, and ever fall'd to draw 
The quiet night into her blood, but lay 
Contemplating her own unworthlness ; 
And when the pale and bloodless east began 
To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised 
Her mother too, and hand In hand they moved 
Down to the meadow where the jousts were held, 
And waited there for Yniol and Geralnt. 

And thither came the twain, and when Geraint 
Beheld her first in field, awaiting him. 
He felt, were she the prize of bodily force. 
Himself beyond the rest pushing could move 
The chair of Idrls. Yniol's rusted arms 
Were on his princely person, but thro' these 
Princelike his bearing shone ; and errant knights 
And ladies came, and by and by the town 



462 ENID. 

Flow'd in, and settling circled all the lists. 

And there they fixt the forks into the ground, 

And over these they placed a silver wand. 

And over that a golden sparrow-hawk. 

Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet blown, 

Spake to the lady with him and proclaim'd, 

"Advance and take, as fairest of the fair, 

For I these two years past have won it for thee, 

The prize of beauty." Loudly spake the Prince, 

" Forbear : there is a worthier," and the knight 

With some surprise and thrice as much disdain 

Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all his face 

Glow'd like the heart of a great fire at Yule, 

So burnt he was with passion, crying out, 

" Do battle for it then," no more ; and thrice 

They clash'd together, and thrice they brake their spears. 

Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lash'd at each 

So often and with such blows, that all the crowd 

Wonder'd, and now and then from distant walls 

There came a clapping as of phantom hands. 

So twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and still 

The dew of their great labor, and the blood 

Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain'd their force. 

But cither's force was match'd till Yniol's cry, 

" Remember that great insult done the Queen," 

Increased Geraint's, who heaved his blade aloft. 

And crack'd the helmet thro', and bit the bone, 

And fell'd him, and set foot upon his breast. 

And said, " Thy name ? " To whoni the fallen man 

Made answer, groaning, " Ed}Tn, son of Nudd ! 

Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee. 

My pride is broken : men have seen my fall." 

" Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd," replied Geraint, 

" These two things shalt thou do, or else thou diest. 

First, thou thyself, thy lady, and thy dwarf, 

Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and being there, 

Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen, 

And shalt abide her judgment on it; next. 

Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin. 

These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die." 

And Edyrn answer'd, " These things will I do, 

For I have never yet been overthrown. 

And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride 

Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall ! " 

And rising up, he rode to Arthur's court, 



ENID. 463 

And there the Queen forgave him easily. 
And being young, he changed himself, and grew 
To hate the sin that seem'd so like his own 
Of Modred, Arthur's nephew, and fell at last 
In the great battle fighting for the king. 

But when the third day from the hunting-morn 
Made a low splendor in the world, and wings 
Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay 
With her fair head in the dim-yellow light, 
Among the dancing shadows of the birds, 
Woke and bethought her of her promise given 
No later than last eve to Prince Geraint — 
So bent he seem'd on going the third day, 
He would not leave her, till her promise given — 
To ride with him this morning to the court. 
And there be made known to the stately Queen, 
And there be wedded with all ceremony. 
At this she cast her eyes upon her dress. 
And thought it never yet had look'd so mean. 
For as a leaf in mid-November is 
To what it was in mid-October, seem'd 
The dress that now she looked on to the dress 
She look'd on ere the coming of Geraint. 
And still she look'd, and still the terror grew 
Of that strange, bright, and dreadful thing, a court, 
All staring at her in her faded silk : 
And softly to her own sweet heart she said : 

^' This noble prince who won our earldom back, 
So splendid in his acts and his attire, 
Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit him ! 
Would, he could tarry with us here awhile ! 
But being so beholden to the Prince, 
It were but little grace in any of us. 
Bent as he seem'd on going this third day, 
To seek a second favor at his hands. 
Yet if he could but tarry a day or two, 
Myself would work eye dim, and finger lame, 
Far liefer than so much discredit him." 

A 

And Enid fell in longing for a dress 
All branch'd and flower'd with gold, a costly gift 
Of her good mother, given her on the night 
Before her birthday, three sad years ago, 



464 ENID. 

Tliat night of fire, when Edyrn sack'd their house, 
And scatter'd all they had to all the winds : 
For while the mother show'd it, and the two 
Were turning and admiring it, the work 
To both appear'd so costly, rose a cry 
That Edyrn's men were on them, and they fled 
With little save the jewels they had on. 
Which beino; sold and sold had bouo-ht them bread : 
And Edyrn's men had caught them in their flight. 
And placed them in this ruin ; and she wish'd 
The Prince had found her in her ancient home ; 
Then let her fancy flit across the past, 
And roam the goodly places that she knew; 
And last bethought her how she used to watch, 
Near that old home, a pool of golden carp ; 
And one was patch'd and blurr'd and lustreless 
Among his burnish 'd brethren of the pool ; 
And half asleep she made comparison 
Of that and these to her own faded self 
And the gay court, and fell asleep again ; 
And dreamt herself was such a faded form 
Among her burnish'd sisters of the pool ; 
. But this was in the garden of a king ; 
And tho' she lay dark in the pool, she knew 
That all was bright ; that all about were birds 
Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work ; 
That all the turf was rich in plots that look'd 
Each like -a garnet or a turkis in it ; 
And lords and ladies of the high court went 
In silver tissue talking things of state ; 
And children of the king in cloth of gold 
Glanced at the doors or gambol'd down the walks ; 
And while she thought, " They will not see me," came 
A stately queen whose name was Guinevere, 
And all the children in their cloth of gold 
Ran to her, crying, " If we have fish at all 
Let them be gold ; and charge the gardeners now 
To pick the faded creature from the pool. 
And cast it on the mixen that it die." 
And therewithal one came and seized on her, 
And Enid started waking, with her heart 
All overshadow'd by the foolish dream. 
And lo ! it was her mother grasping her 
To get her well awake ; and in her hand 
A suit of bright apparel, which she laid 
Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly : 



465 



" See here, my child, how fresh the colors look, 
How fast they hold like colors of a shell 
That keeps the wear and polish of the wave. 
Why not ? it never yet was worn, I trow : 
Look on it, child, and tell me if you know it." 

And Enid look'd, but all confused at first, 
Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream : 
Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced. 
And ansAver'd, "Yea, I know it; your good gift. 
So sadly lost on that unhappy night ; 
Your own good gift ! " " Yea, surely," said the dame, 
"And gladly given again this happy morn. 
For when the jousts were ended yesterday. 
Went Yniol thro' the town, and everywhere 
He found the sack and plunder of our house 
All scatter'd thro' the houses of the town ; 
And gave command that all which once was ours 
Should now be ours again : and yester-eve, 
"While you were talking sweetly with your Prince, 
Came one Avith this and laid it in my hand, 
For love or fear, or seeking favor of us. 
Because we have our earldom back again. 
And yester-eve I would not tell you of it, 
But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn. 
Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise ? 
For I myself unwillingly have worn 
My faded suit, as you, my child, have yours. 
And howsoever patient, Yniol his. 
Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house. 
With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare, 
And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal, 
And pastime both of hawk and hound, and all 
That appertains to noble maintenance. 
Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house ; 
But since our fortune slipt from sun to shade, 
And all thro' that young traitor, cruel need 
Constrain'd us, but a better time has come ; 
So clothe yourself in this, that better fits 
Our mended fortunes and a Prince's bride : 
For tho' you won the prize of fairest fair. 
And tho' I heard him call you fairest fair. 
Let never maiden think, however fair, 
She is not fairer in new clothes than old. 
And should some great court-lady say, the Prince 
30 



466 ENID. 

Hatli pick'd a ragged-robin from the hedge, 

And like a madman brought her to the court, 

Then were you shamed, arid, worse, might shame the Prince 

To whom we are beholden ; but I know. 

When my dear child is set forth at her best, 

That neither court nor country, tho' they sought 

Thro' all the provinces like those of old 

That lighted on Queen Esther, has her match." 

Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath ; 
And Enid listen'd brightening as she lay ; 
Then, as the white and glittering star of morn 
Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by 
Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose, 
And left her maiden couch, and robed herself, 
Help'd by the mother's careful hand and eye, 
Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown ; 
Who, after, turn'd her daughter round, and said, 
She never yet had seen her half so fair ; 
And call'd her like that maiden in the tale, 
Whom Gwydion made by glamor out of flowers, 
And sweeter than the bride of Cassivelaun, 
Flur, for whose love the Roman CaBsar first 
Invaded Britain, " but we beat him back, 
As this great prince invaded us, and we. 
Not beat him back, but welcomed him with joy. 
And I can scarcely ride with you to court. 
For old am I, and rough the ways and Avild; 
But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream 
I see my princess as I see her now, 
Clothed with my gift, and gay among the gay." 

But while the women thus rejoiced, Geraint 
Woke where he slept in the high hall, and call'd 
For Enid, and when Yniol made report 
Of that good mother making Enid gay 
In such apparel as might well beseem 
His princess, or indeed the stately queen. 
He answer'd ; " Earl, entreat her by my love, 
Albeit I give no reason but my wish, 
That she ride with me in her faded silk." 
Yniol with that hard message went ; it fell. 
Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn : 
For Enid all abash'd she knew not why, 
Dared not to glance at her good mother's face. 
But silently, in all obedience, 



ENID. 467 

Her mother silent too, nor helping her, 

Laid from her limbs the eostly-broider'd gift, 

And robed them in her ancient suit again, 

And so descended. Never man rejoiced 

More than Geraint to greet her thus attired ; 

And glancing all at once as keenly at her, 

As careful robins eye the delver's toil. 

Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall, 

But rested with her sweet face satisfied ; 

Then seeing cloud upon the mother's brow, 

Her by both hands he caught, and sweetly said : — 

" O my new mother, be not wroth or grieved 
At your new son, for my petition to her. 
When late I left Caerleon, our great Q,ueen, 
In words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet. 
Made promise, that whatever bride I brought. 
Herself would clothe her like the sun in Heaven. 
Thereafter, when I reach'd this ruin'd hold, 
Beholding one so bright in dark estate, 
I vow'd that could I gain her, our kind Queen, 
No hand but hers, should make your Enid burst 
Sunlike from cloud — and likewise thought perhaps, 
That service done so graciously would bind 
The two together; for I wish the two 
To love each other : how should Enid find 
A nobler friend ? Another thought I had ; 
I came among you here so suddenly, 
That tho' her gentle presence at the lists 
Might well have served for proof that I was loved, 
I doubted whether filial tenderness, 
Or easy nature, did not let itself 
Be moulded by your wishes for her weal ; 
Or whether some false sense in her own self 
Of my contrasting brightness, overbore 
Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall ; 
And such a sense might make her long for court 
And all its dangerous glories : and I thought, 
That could I someway prove such force in her 
Link'd with such love for me, that at a word 
(No reason given her) she could cast aside 
A splendor dear to women, new to her. 
And therefore dearer ; or if not so new. 
Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power 
Of intermitted custom ; then 1 felt 
That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows, 



468 ENID. 

Fixt on lier faith. Now, therefore, I do rest, 
A prophet certain of my prophecy, 
That never shadow of mistrust can cross 
Between us. Grant me pardon for my thoughts : 
And for my strange petition I will make 
Amends hereafter by some gaudy day. 
When your fair child shall wear your costly gift 
Beside your own warm hearth, with, on her knees. 
Who knows ? another gift of the high God, 
Which, maybe, shall have learn'd to lisp you thanks. 

He spoke : the mother smiled, but half in tears. 
Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it, 
And claspt and kiss'd her, and they rode away. 

Now thrice that morning Guinevere had climb'd 
The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say. 
Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, 
And white sails flying on the yellow sea ; 
But not to goodly hill or yellow sea 
Look'd the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk, 
By the flat meadow, till she saw them come ; 
And then descending met them at the gates, 
Embraced her with all welcome as a friend. 
And did her honor as the Prince's bride. 
And clothed her for her bridals like the sun ; 
And all that week was old Caerleon gay. 
For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint, 
They twain were wedded with all ceremony. 

And this was on the last year's Whitsuntide. 
But Enid ever kept the faded silk, 
Remembering how first he came on her, 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, 
And all her foolish fears about the dress. 
And all his journey toward her, as himself 
Had told her^ and their coming to the court. 

And now this morning when he said to her, 
" Put on your worst and meanest dress," she found 
And took it, and array'd herself therein. 

O purblind race of miserable men. 
How many among us at this very hour 
Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, 
By taking true for false, or false for true ; 



ENID. 



469 



Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this world 
Groping, how many, until we pass and reach 
That other, where we see as we are seen ! 

So fared it with Geraint, w^ho issuing forth 
That morning, when they both had got to horse, 
Perhaps because he loved her passionately. 
And felt that tempest brooding rovuid his heart, 
Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce 
Upon a head so dear in thunder, said : 
" Not at my side. I charge you ride before, 
Ever a good way on before ; and this 
I charge you, on your duty as a wife. 
Whatever happens, not to speak to me. 
No, not a word ! " and Enid was aghast ; 
And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on, 
When crying out, " Effeminate as I am, 
I will not fight my way with gilded arms. 
All shall be iron ; " he loosed a mighty purse, 
Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward the squire. 
So the last sight that Enid had of home 
Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown 
With gold and scatter'd coinage, and the squire 
Chafing his shoulder : then he cried again^ 
" To the Avilds ! " and Enid leading down the tracks 
Thro' which he bade her lead him on, they past 
The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds. 
Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern, 
And wildernesses, jDerilous paths, they rode : 
Round was their pace at first, but slackened soon : 
A stranger meeting them had surely thought 
They rode so slowly and they look'd so pale, 
That each had suflfer'd some exceeding wrong. 
For he was ever saying to himself, 
"01 that wasted time to tend upon her, 
To compass her with sweet observances. 
To dress her beautifully and keep her true " — 
And there he broke the sentence in his heart 
Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue 
May break it, when his passion masters him. 
And she was ever praying the sweet heavens 
To save her dear lord whole from any wound. 
And ever in her mind she cast about 
For that unnoticed falling in herself. 
Which made him look so cloudy and so cold ; 
Till the great plover's human whistle amazed 



470 



Her heart, and glancing round the waste she fear'd 
In every wavering brake an ambuscade. 
Then thought again, " If there be such in me, 
I might amend it by the grace of Heaven, 
If he would only speak and tell me of it." 

But when the fourth part of the day was gone, 
Then Enid was aware of three tall knights 
On horseback, wholly arm'd, behind a rock 
In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all; 
And heard one crying to his fellow, "Look, 
Here comes a lago-ard: hano-in<>; down his head, 
Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound ; 
Come, we will slay him and will have his horse 
And armor, arid his damsel shall be ours." 

Then Enid ponder'd in her heart, and said; 
" I will go back a little to my lord, 
And. I will tell him all their caitiff talk ; 
For, be he wroth even to slaying me. 
Far liever by his dear hand had I die, 
Than that my lord should suffer loss or shame." 

Then she went back some paces of return. 
Met his full frown timidly firm, and said : 
" My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock 
Waiting to fall on you, and heard them boast 
That they would slay you, and possess your horse 
And armor, and your damsel should be theirs." 

He made a wrathful answer. " Did I wish 
Your warning or your silence ? one command 
I laid upon you, not to speak to me. 
And thus you keep it ! Well then, look — for now, 
Whether, you wish me victory or defeat. 
Long for my life, or hunger for my death. 
Yourself shall see my vigor is not lost." 

Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful. 
And down upon him bare the bandit three. 
And at the midmost charging. Prince Geraint 
Drave the long spear a cubit thro' his breast 
And out beyond ; and then against his brace 
Of comrades, each of whom had broken on him 
A lance that splinter'd like an icicle, 
Swung from his brand a windy buffet out 



471 



Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunn'd the twain 
Or slew them, and dismounting like a man 
That skins the wild beast after slaying him, 
Stript from the three dead wolves of woman born 
The three gay suits of armor which they wore, 
And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits 
Of armor on their horses, each on each. 
And tied the bridle-reins on all the three 
Together, and said to her, " Drive them on 
Before you ; " and she drove them thro' the waste. 

He follow'd nearer : ruth began to work 
Against his anger in him, while he watch'd 
The being he loved best in all the world, 
With difficulty in mild obedience 
Driving them on : he fain had spoken to her. 
And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath 
And smolder'd wn^ong that burnt him all within ; 
But evermore it seenl'd an easier thing 
At once without remorse to strike her dead. 
Than to cry " Halt," and to her own bright face 
Accuse her of the least immodesty : 
And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more 
That she could speak whom his own ear had heard 
Call herself false : and suifering thus he made 
Minutes an age : but in scarce longer time 
Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, 
Before he turn to fall seaward again. 
Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold 
In the first shallow shade of a deep wood, 
Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks. 
Three other horsemen waiting, wholly arm'd, 
Whereof one seem'd far larger than her lord. 
And shook her pulses, crying, " Look, a prize ! 
Three horses and three goodly suits of arms, 
And all In charge of whom ? a girl : set on." 
" Nay," said the second, '' yonder comes a knight." 
The third, "A craven ; how he hangs his head." 
The giant answer'd merrily, " Yea, but one ? 
Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him." 

And Enid ponder'd in her heart and said, 
" I will abide the coming of my lord, 
And I will tell him all their villany. 
My lord is weary with the fight before, 



472 ENID. 

And they will fall upon him unawares. 
I needs must disobey him for his good ; 
How should I dare obey him to his harm ? 
Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill me for it, 
I save a life dearer to me than mine." 

And she abode his coming, and said to hira 
With timid firmness, " Have I leave to speak ? " 
He said, " You take it, speaking," and she spoke. 

" There lurk three villains yonder in the wood, 
And each of them is wholly arm'd, and one 
Is larger-limb'd than you are, and they say 
That they will fall upon you while you pass." 

To which he flung a wrathful answer back : 
"And if there were an hundred in the wood, 
And every man were larger-limb'd than I, 
And all at once should sally out upon me, 
I swear it would not ruffle me so much 
As you that not obey me. Stand aside. 
And if I fall, cleave to the better man." 

And Enid stood aside to wait the event, 
Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe 
Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath. 
And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him. 
Aim'd at the helm, his lance err'd ; but Geraint's, 
A little in the late encounter strain'd. 
Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corselet home, 
And then brake short, and down his enemy roU'd, 
And there lay still ; as he that tells the tale, 
Saw once a great piece of a promontory, 
That had a sapling growing on it, slip 
From the long shore-cliff*'s windy walls to the beach, 
And tlicre lie still, and yet the sapling gi-ew : 
So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair 
Of comrades, making slowlier at the Prince, 
When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood ; 
On whom the victor, to confound them more, 
Spurr'd Avith his terrible war-cry ; for as one, 
Tliat listens near a torrent mountain-brook. 
All thro' the crash of the near cataract hears 
The drumming thunder of the huger fall 



ENID. 473 

His A'oice in battle, and be kindled by it, 
And foemen scared, like that false pair avIio turn'd 
Flying, but, overtaken, died the death 
Themselves had wrought on many an innocent. 

Thereon Geraint, dismounting, pick'd the lance 
That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves 
Their three gay suits of armor, each from each, 
And bound them on their horses, each on each, 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the three 
Together, and said to her, " Drive them on 
Before you," and she drove them thro' the wood. 

He follow'd nearer still : the pain she had 
To keep them in the wild ways of the wood, 
Two sets of three laden with jingling arms. 
Together, served a little to disedge 
The sharpness of that pain about her heart : 
And they themselves, like creatures gently born 
But into bad hands fall'n, and now so long 
By bandits groom'd, prick'd their light ears, and felt 
Her low firm voice and tender government. 

So thro' the green gloom of the wood they past, 
And issuing under open heavens beheld 
A little town with towers, upon a rock, 
And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased 
In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it : 
And down a rocky pathway from the place 
There came a fair-hair'd youth, that in his hand 
Bare victual for the mowers : and Geraint 
Had ruth again on Enid looking pale : 
Then, moving downward to the meadow-ground^ 
He, when the fair-hair'd youth came by him, said, 
" Friend, let her eat ; the damsel is so faint." 
" Yea, willingly," replied the youth ; " and you, 
My lord, eat also, tho' the fare is coarse, 
And only meet for mowers ; " then set down 
His basket, and dismounting on the sward 
They let the horses graze, and ate themselves. 
And Enid took a little delicately, 
Less having stomach for it than desire 
To close with her lord's pleasure ; but Geraint 
Ate all the mowers' victual unawares, 
And when he found all empty, was amazed ; 



474 



And " Boy," said he, " 1 have eaten all, but take 

A horse and arms for guerdon ; choose the best." 

He, reddening in extremity of delight, 

" My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold." 

" You will be all the wealthier," cried the Prince. 

"I take it as free gift, then," said the boy, 

" Not guerdon ; for myself can easily. 

While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch 

Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl ; 

For these are his, and all the field is his. 

And I myself am his ; and I will tell him 

How great a man you are : he loves to know 

When men of mark are in his territory : 

And he will have you to his palace here. 

And serve you costlier than with mowers' fare." 

Then said Geraint, " 1 wish no better fare : 
I never ate with angrier appetite 
Than when I left your mowers dinnerless. 
And into no EarFs palace will I go. 
I know, God knows, too much of palaces ! 
And if he want me, let him come to me. 
But hire us some fair chamber for the night, 
And stalling for the horses, and return 
With victual for these men, and let us know." 

" Yea, my kind lord," said the glad youth, and went. 
Held his head high, and thought himself a knight, 
And up the rocky pathway disappear'd. 
Leading the horse, and they were left alone. 

But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes 
Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance 
At Enid, where she droopt : his own false doom. 
That shadow of mistrust should never cross 
Betvvixt them, came upon him, and he sigh'd ; 
Then with another humorous ruth remark'd 
The lusty mowers laboring dinnerless. 
And watch'd the sun blaze on the turning scythe, 
And after nodded sleepily in the heat. 
But she, remembering her old ruin'd hall, 
And all the windy clamor of the daws 
About her hollow turret, pluck'd the grass 
There growing longest by the meadow's edge, 
And into many a listless annulet, 



475 



Now over, now beneath her marriage-ring, 

Wove and unwove it, till the bo}' return Yi 

And told them of a chamber, and they went ; 

Where, after saying to her, " If yoti will, 

Call for the woman of the house," to ^vhich 

She answer'd, " Thanks, m\' lord ; " the tAvo remain'd 

Apart by all the chamber's width, and mute 




As creatures; voiceless thro' tiie tank of biilh, 
Or two wild men supporters of a shield. 
Painted, who stare at of)en space, nor gbmcc 
The one at other, parted by the shieM. 



476 ENID. 

On a sudden, many a voice along the street, 
And heel against the pavement echoing, burst 
Then- drowse ; and either started while the door, 
Push'd from without, drave backward to the wall, 
And midmost of a rout of roisterers, 
Femininely fair and dissolutely pale. 
Her suitor in old years before Geraint, 
Enter 'd, the wild lord of the place, Limoui-s. 
He moving up with pliant courtliness, 
Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily. 
In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt hand. 
Found Enid with the corner of his eye. 
And knew her sitting sad and solitary. 
Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer 
To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously 
According to his fashion, bade the host 
Call in what men soever were his friends, 
And feast with these in honor of their earl ; 
''And care not for the cost ; the cost is mine." 

And wine and food were brought, and Earl Limours 
Drank till he jested with all ease, and told 
Free tales, and took the word and play'd upon it. 
And made it of two colors ; for his talk. 
When wine and free companions kindled him. 
Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem 
Of fifty facets ; thus he moved the Prince 
To laughter and his comrades to applause. 
Then, when the Prince was merry, ask'd Limours, 
" Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak 
To your good damsel there who sits apart. 
And seems so lonely ? " " My free leave," he said ; 
" Get her to speak : she does not speak to me." 
Then rose Limours and looking at his feet. 
Like him who tries the bridge he fears may fail, 
Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes, 
Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisperingly : 

" Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, 
Enid my early and my only love, 
Enid the loss of whom has turn'd me wild — 
What chance is this ? how is it I see you here ? 
You are in my power at last, are in my power. 
Yet fear me not : I call mine own self wild. 
But keep a touch of sweet civility 



ENID. 477 

Here In the heart of waste and wilderness. 

I thought, but that your father came between, 

In former days you saw me favorably. 

And if It were so do not keep it back : 

Make me a little happier : let me know It : 

Owe you me nothing for a life half lost ? 

Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are. 

And, Enid, you and he, I see it with joy — 

You sit apart, you do not speak to him, 

You come with no attendance, page or maid, 

To serve you — does he love you as of old ? 

For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know 

Tho' men may bicker with the things they love. 

They would not make them laughable in all eyes, 

Not while they loved them ; and your wretched dress, 

A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks 

Your story, that this man loves you no more. 

Your beauty is no beauty to him now : 

A common chance — right well I know it — pall'd — 

For I know men : nor will you win him back, 

For the man's love once gone never returns. 

But here is one who loves you as of old ; 

With more exceeding passion than of old : 

Good, speak the word : my followers ring him round : 

He sits unarm'd ; I hold a finger up ; 

They understand : no ; I do not mean blood : 

Nor need you look so scared at what I say : 

My malice is no deeper than a moat, 

!No stronger than a wall : there is the keep ; 

He shall not cross us more ; speak but the word : 

Or speak it not ; but then by Him that made me 

The one true lover which you ever had, 

I will make use of all the power I have. 

O pardon me ! the madness of that hour, 

When first I parted from you, moves me yet.'* 

At this the tender sound of his own voice 
And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it, 
Made his eye moist ; but Enid fear'd his eyes, 
Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast ; 
And answer'd with such craft as women use, 
Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance 
That breaks upon them perilously, and said : 

" Earl, if you love me as in former years, 
And do not practise on me, come with morn, 



478 ENID. 

And snatch me from him as by violence ; 
Leave me to-night : I am weary to the death." 
Low at leave-taking, with his brandish'd plume 
Brushing his instep, bow'd the all-amorous Earl, 
And the stout Prince bade him a loud good-night. 
He moving homeward babbled to his men, 
How Enid never loved a man but him, 



But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint, 
Debating his command of silence given. 
And that she now perforce must violate it, 
Held commune with herself, and while she held 
He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart 
To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleased 
To find him yet unwounded after fight, 
And hear him breathing low and equally. 
Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heap'd 
The pieces of his armor in one place. 
All to be there against a sudden need ; 
Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoil'd 
By that day's grief and travel, evermore 
Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, and then 
Went shpping down horrible precipices. 
And strongly striking out her limbs awoke ; 
Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the door, 
With all his rout of random followers, 
Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning her ; 
Which was the red cock shouting to the light, 
As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy world, 
And glimmer'd on his armor in the room. 
And once again she rose to look at it, 
But touch'd it unawares : Jangling, the casque 
Fell, and he started up and stared at her. 
Then breakiiig his command of silence given, 
She told him all that Earl Limours had said, 
Except the passage that he loved her not ; 
Nor left untold the craft herself had used ; 
But ended with apology so sweet, 
Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seem'd 
So justified by that necessity. 
That tho' he thought, " Was it for him she wept 
In Devon ? " he but gave a wrathful groan. 
Saying, " Your sweet faces make good fellows fools 
And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring 
Charger and palfrey." So she glided out 



ENID. 479 

Among the heavy breathings of the house, 

And like a household Spirit at the walls 

Beat, till she woke the sleepei-s, and return'd : 

Then tending her rough lord, tho' all unask'd, 

In silence, did him service as a squire ; 

Till issuing arm'd he found the host and cried, 

" Thy reckoning, friend ? " and ere he learnt it, " Take 

Five horses and their armors ; " and the host. 

Suddenly honest, answer'd in amaze, 

" ]My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of one ! " 

" You will be all the wealthier," said the Prince, 

And then to Enid, " Forward ! and to-day 

I charge you, Enid, more especicdly. 

What thing soever you may hear, or see. 

Or fancy (tho' I count it of small use 

To charge you) that you speak not but obey." 

And Enid answer'd, " Yea, my lord, I know 
Your wish, and would obey ; but riding first, 
I hear the violent threats you do not hear, 
I see the danger which you cannot see : 
Then not to give you warning, that seems hard; 
Almost beyond me : yet I would obey." 

" Y'ea so," said he, " do it : be not too wise ; 
Seeing that you are wedded to a man. 
Not quite mismated with a yawning clown. 
But one with arms to guard his head and yours, 
With eyes to find you out however far. 
And ears to hear you even in his dreams." 

With that he turn'd and look'd as keenly at her 
As careful robins eye the delver's toil ; 
And that within her, which a wanton fool, 
Or hasty judger would have call'd her guilt. 
Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall. 
And Geraint look'd and was not satisfied. 

Then forward by a way which, beaten broad. 
Led from the territory of false Limours 
To the waste earldom of another earl, 
Doorm, whom his shaking vassals call'd the Bull, 
Went Enid with her sullen follower on. 
Once she look'd back, and when she saw him ride 
More near by many a rood than yester-morn. 



480 ENID. 

It wellnigli made her cheerful ; till Geraint 

Waving an angry hand as who hould say, 

" You watch me," sadden'd all her heart again. 

But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade, 

The sound of many a heavily galloping hoof 

Smote on her ear, and turning round she saw 

Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it. 

Then not to disobey her lord's behest. 

And yet to give him warning, for he rode 

As if' he heard not, moving back she held 

Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. 

At which the warrior in his obstinacy, 

Because she kept the letter of his word 

Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood. 

And in the moment after, wild Limours, 

Borne on a black liorse, like a thunder-cloud 

Whose skirts are loosen'd by the breaking storm, 

Half ridden off with by the thing he rode, 

And all in passion uttering a dry shriek, 

Dash'd on Geraint, Avho closed with him, and bore 

Down by the length of lance and arm beyond 

The crupper, and so left him stunn'd or dead. 

And overthrew the next that foUow'd him, 

And blindly rush'd on all the rout behind. 

But at the flash and motion of the man 

They vanish'd panic-stricken, like a shoal 

Of darting fish, that on a summer morn 

Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot 

Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand, 

But if a man who stands upon the brink 

But lift a shining hand against the sun. 

There is not left the twinkle of a fin 

Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower ; 

So, scared but at the motion of the man. 

Fled all the boon companions of the Earl, 

And left him lying in the public way ; 

So vanish friendships only made in wine. 

Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint, 
Who saw the chargers of the two that fell 
Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly, 
Mixt with the flyers. " Horse and man," he said, 
"All of one mind and all right-honest friends ! 
Not a hoof left : and I methinks till now 
Was honest — paid with horses and with arms ; 



ENID. 481 

I cannot steal or plunder, no, nor beg : 

And so what say you, shall we strip him there 

Your lover ? has your palfrey heart enough 

To bear his armor ? shall we fast, or dine ? 

Xo ? — then do you, being right honest, pray 

That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm, 

I too would still be honest." Thus he said : 

And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins. 

And answering not one word, she led the way. 

But as a man to whom a dreadful loss 
Falls in a far land and he knows it not. 
But coming back he learns it, and the loss 
So piiins him that he sickens nigh to death ; 
So fared it with Geraint, who being prick'd 
In combat with the follower of Limours, 
Bled underneath his armor secretly. 
And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife 
What ail'd him, hardly knowing it himself. 
Till his eye darken'd and his helmet wagg'd ; 
And at a sudden swerving of the road, 
Tho' happily down on a bank of grass. 
The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell. 

And Enid heard the clashing of his fall, 
Suddenly came, and at his side all pale 
Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms, 
Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye 
Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound, 
And tearing off her veil of faded silk 
Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun. 
And swathed the hurt that drain'd her dear lord's life. 
Then after all was done that hand could do, 
She rested, and her desolation came 
Upon her, and she wept beside the way. 

And many past, but none regarded her, 
For in that realm of lawless turbulence, 
A woman weeping for her murder'd mate 
Was cared as much for as a summer shower : 
One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm, 
Nor dared to waste. a perilous pity on him : 
Another huriying past, a man-at-arms. 
Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl ; 
Half whistllns and half singing a coarse son"-, 
31 



482 ENID. 

He drove the dust against her veilless eyes : 
Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm 
Before an ever-fancied arrow, made 
The long way smoke beneath him in his fear ; 
At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel, 
And scour'd into the coppices and was lost, 
While the great charger stood, grieved like a man. 

But at the point of noon the huge Earl Doorm, 
Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet beard, 
Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey, 
Came riding with a hundred lances up ; 
But ere he came, like one that hails a ship, 
Cried out with a big voice, " What, is he dead ? " 
" No, no, not dead ! " she answer'd in all haste. 
" Would some of your kind people take him up, 
And bear him hence out of this cruel sun : 
Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead." 

Then said Earl Doorm ; " Well, if he be not dead, 
Why wail you for him thus ? you seem a child. 
And be he dead, I count you for a fool ; 
Your wailing will not quicken him : dead or not, 
You mar a comely face with idiot tears. 
Yet, since the face is comely — some of you, 
Here, take him up, and bear him to our hall : 
And if he live, we will have him of our band ; 
And if he die, why earth has earth enough 
To hide him. See ye take the charger too, • 
A noble one." 

He spake, and past away, 
But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced, 
Each growling like a dog, when his good bone 
Seems to be pluck'd at by the village-boys 
Who love to vex him eating, and he fears 
To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it. 
Gnawing and growling : so the ruffians growl'd, 
Fearing to lose, and all for a dead mcui. 
Their chance of booty from the morning's raid ; 
Yet raised and laid him on a Utter-bier, 
Such as they brought upon their forays out 
For those that might be wounded ; laid him on it 
All in the hollow of his shield, and took 
-And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm, 
(His gentle charger following him unled) 



ENID. 483 

And cast him and the bier in which he lay 
Down on an oaken settle in the hall, 
And then departed, hot in haste to join . 
Their luckier mates, but growhng as before. 
And cursing their lost time, and the dead man, 
And their own Earl, and their own souls, and her. 
They might as well have blest her : she was deaf 
To blessing or to cursing save from one. 

So for long hours sat, Enid by her lord. 
There in the naked hall, propping his head. 
And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him. 
And at the last he waken'd from his swoon. 
And found his own dear bride propping his head, 
And chafing his faint hands, and calling to him ; 
And felt the warm tears falling on his face ; 
And said to his own heart, " She weeps for me : " 
And yet lay still, and feign'd himself as dead. 
That he might prove her to the uttermost. 
And say to his own heart, " She weeps for me." 

But in the falling afternoon return'd 
The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall. 
His lusty spearmen follow'd him with noise : 
Each htrrling down a heap of things that rang 
Against the pjivement, cast his lance aside. 
And dofF'd his helm : and then there flutter'd in. 
Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes, 
A tribe of women, dress'd in many hues, 
And mingled Avith the spearmen : and Earl Doorm 
Struck with a knife's haft hard against the board. 
And call'd for flesh and wine to feed his spears. 
And men brought in Avhole hogs and quarter-beeves, 
And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh : 
And none spake word, but all sat down at once, 
And ate with tumult in the naked hall, 
Feeding like horses when you hear them feed ; 
Till Enid shrank far back into herself, 
To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe. 
But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would, 
He roll'd his eyes about the hall, and found 
A damsel drooping in a corner of it. 
Then he remember'd her, and how she wept ; 
And out of her there came a power upon him; 
And rising on the sudden he said, " Eat ! 



484 



I never yet beheld a thing so pale. 

God's curse, it makes me mad to see you weep. 

Eat ! Look yourself. Good luck had your good man, 

For were I dead who is it would weep for me ? 

Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath. 

Have I beheld a lily like yourself 

And so there lived some color in your cheek, 

There is not one among my gentlewomen 

Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove. 

But listen to me, and by me be ruled. 

And I will do the thing I have not done, 

For you shall share my earldom with me, girl, 

And we will live like two birds in one nest. 

And I will fetch you forage from all fields. 

For I compel all creatures to my will." 

He spoke : the brawny spearman let his cheek 
Bulge with the unswallow'd piece, and turning, stared ; 
While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn 
Down, as the worm draws in the wither'd leaf 
And makes it earth, hiss'd each at other's ear 
What shall not be recorded — women they. 
Women, or what had been those gracious things, 
But now desired the humbling of their best. 
Yea, would have helped him to it : and all at once 
They hated her, who took no thought of them. 
But answer'd In low voice, her meek head yet 
Drooping, " I pray you of your courtesy. 
He being as he is, to let me be." 

She spake so low he hardly heard her speak, 
But like a mighty patron, satisfied 
With what himself had done so graciously. 
Assumed that she had thanked him, adding, " Yea, 
Eat and be glad, for I account you mine." 

She answer'd meekly, " How should I be glad 
Henceforth in all the world at anything, 
Until my lord arise and look upon me ? " 

Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk, 
As all but empty heart and weariness 
And sickly nothing ; suddenly seized on her, 
And bare her by main violence to the board. 
And thrust the dish before her, crying, " Eat." 



ENID. 485 

" No, no," said Enid, vext, " I will not eat, 
Till yonder man upon the bier arise. 
And eat with me." " Drink, then," he answer'd. " Here ! " 
(And fill'd a horn with wine and held it to her,) 
" Lo ! I, myself, when fiush'd with fight, or hot, 
God's curse, with anger — often I myself, 
Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat : 
Drink therefore, and the wine will change your will." 

" Not so," she cried, " by Heaven, I will not drink, 
Till my dear lord arise and bid mc do it. 
And drink with me ; and if he rise no more, 
I will not look at wine until I die." 

At this he turn'd all red and paced his hall, 
Now gnaw'd his under, now his upper lip, 
And coming up close to her, said at last ; 
" Girl, for I see you scorn my courtesies, 
Take warning : yonder man is surely dead ; 
And I compel all creatures to my will. 
Not eat nor drink ? And wherefore wail for one, 
Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn 
By dressing it in rags ? Amazed am I, 
Beholding how you butt against my wish. 
That I forbear you thus : cross me no more. 
At least put off to please me this poor gown, 
This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed : 
I love that beauty should go beautifully : 
For see you not my gentlewomen here. 
How gay, how suited to the house of one. 
Who loves that beauty should go beautifully ! 
Rise therefore ; robe yourself in this : obey." 

He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen 
Display'd a splendid silk of foreign loom. 
Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue 
Play'd into green, and thicker down the front 
With jeAvels than the sward with drops of dew, 
When all night long a cloud clings to the hill. 
And with the dawn ascending lets the day 
Strike where it clung : so thickly shone the gems. 

But Enid answer'd, harder to be moved 
Than hardest tyrants in their day of power. 
With life-long injuries burning unavenged, 
And now their hour has come ; and Enid said ; 



486 ENID. 

" In this poor gown my dear lord found me first, 
And loved me serving in my father's hall : 
In this poor gown I rode with him to court, 
And there the Queen array'd me like the sun : 
In this poor gown he bade me clothe myself, 
When now we rode upon this fatal quest 
Of honor, where no honor can be gain'd : 
And this poor gown I will not cast aside 
Until himself arise a living man, 
And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough : 
Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be : 
I never loved, can never love but him : 
Yea, God, I pray you of your gentleness, 
He being as he is, to let me be." 

Then strode the brute Earl up and down his hall, 
And took his russet beard between his teeth ; 
Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood 
Crying, " I count it of no more avail, 
Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you ; 
Take my salute," unknightly with flat hand, 
However lightly, smote her on the cheek. 

\ Then Enid, in her utter helplessness. 

And since she thought, " He had not dared to do it, 

Except he surely knew my lord was dead," 

Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry. 

As of a wild thing taken in the trap, 

Which sees the trapper coming thro' the wood. 

This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword, 
(It lay beside him in the hollow shield). 
Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it 
Shore thro' the swarthy neck, and like a ball 
The russet-bearded head roll'd on the floor. 
So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead. 
And all the men and women in the hall 
Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled 
Yelling as from a spectre, and the two 
Were left alone together, and he said : 

" Enid, I have used you worse than that dead man : 
Done you more wrong : we both have undergone 
That trouble which has left me thrice your own : 
Henceforward I will rather die than doubt. 



ENID. 487 

And here I lay this penance on myself, 

Not, tho' mine own ears heard you yester-morn — 

You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say, 

I heard you say, that you Avere no true wife : 

I swear I will not ask your meaning in it : 

I do believe yourself against yourself, 

And Avill henceforward rather die than doubt." 

And Enid could not say one tender word, 
She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart : 
She only prayed him, " Fly, they will return 
And slay you; fly, your charger is without, 
My palfrey lost." " Then, Enid, shall you ride 
Behind me." " Yea," said Enid, " let us go." 
And moAang out they found the stately horse. 
Who noAV no more a vassal to the thief. 
But free to stretch his limbs in laAvful fight, 
Neigh'd Avith all gladness as they came, and stoop'd 
With a loAv Avhinny tOAvard the pair : and she 
Kiss'd the Avhite star upon his noble front. 
Glad also ; then Geraint upon the horse 
Mounted, and reach'd a hand, and on his foot 
She set her OAvn and climb'd ; he turn'd his face 
And kiss'd her climbing, and she cast her arms 
About him, and at once they rode aAvay. 

And never yet, since high in Paradise 
O'er the four rivers the first roses blcAv, 
Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind 
Than lived thro' her, Avho in that perilous hour 
Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart, 
And felt him hers again: she did not Aveep, 
But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist 
Like that Avhich kept the heart of Eden green 
Before the useful trouble of the rain : 
Yet not so misty Avere her meek blue eyes 
As not to see before them on the path, 
Right in the gatCAvay of the bandit hold, 
A knight of Arthur's court, avIio laid his lance 
In rest, and made as if to fall upon him. 
Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of blood. 
She, Avith her mind all full of Avhat had chanced, 
Shriek'd to the stranger, " Slay not a dead man ! " 
" The voice of Enid," said the knight ; but she. 
Beholding it Avas Edyrn son of Nudd, 



488 



Was moved so much the more, and shriek'd again, 
" O cousin, slay not him who gave you life." 
And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake : 
" My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love ; 
I took you for a bandit knight of Doorm ; 
And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him. 
Who love you. Prince, with something of the love 
Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us. 
For once, when I was up so high in pride 
That I was half-way down the slope to Hell, 
By overthrowing me you threw me higher. 
Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table Round, 
And since I knew this Earl, when I myself 
Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, 
I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm 
(The King is close behind me) bidding him 
Disband himself, and scatter all his powers, 
Submit, and hear the judgment of the King." 

" He hears the judgment of the King of kings," 
Cried the wan Prince ; " and lo, the powers of Doorm 
Are scatter'd," and he pointed to the field. 
Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll, 
Were men and women staring and aghast. 
While some yet fled ; and then he plainlier told 
How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall. 
But when the knight besought him, " Follow me. 
Prince, to the camp, and in the King's own ear 
Speak what has chanced ; you surely have endured- 
Strange chances here alone ; " that other flush'd, 
And hung his head, and halted in reply. 
Fearing the mild face of the blameless King, 
And after madness acted question ask'd : 
Till Edyrn crying, " If you will not go 
To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you," 
" Enough," he said, " I follow," and they went. 
But Enid in their going had two fears. 
One from the bandit scatter'd in the field. 
And one from Edyrn. Every now and then. 
When Edyrn rein'd his charger at her side, 
She shrank a little. In a hollow land. 
From which old fires have broken, men may fear 
Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said : 

" Fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause 



489 



To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed. 

Yom'self were first the bhimeless cause to make 

My nature's prideful sparkle in the blood 

Break into furious flame ; being repulsed 

By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and wrought 

Until I overturn'd him ; then set up 

(With one main purpose ever at my heart) 

My haughty jousts, and took a paramour ; 

Did her mock-honor as the fairest fair, 

And, toppling over all antagonism, 

So wax'd in pride, that I believed myself 

Unconquerable, for I was Avellnigh mad : 

And, but for my main purpose in these jousts, 

I should have slain your father, seized yourself. 

I lived in hope that sometime you would come 

To these my lists with him whom best you loved ; 

And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyes, 

The truest eyes that ever answer'd Heaven, 

Behold me overturn and trample on him. 

Then, had you cried, or knelt, or pray'd to me, 

I should not less have kill'd him. And you came, — 

But once you came, — and with your own true eyes 

Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one 

Speaks of a service done him) overthrow 

My proud self, and my purpose three years old. 

And set his foot upon me, and give me life. 

There was I broken down ; there was I saved : 

Tho' thence I rode all-shamed, hating the life 

He gave me, meaning to be rid of it. 

And all the penance the Queen laid upon me 

Was but to rest awdiile witliin her court ; 

Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged, 

And waiting to be treated like a wolf. 

Because I knew my deeds were known, I found. 

Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn. 

Such fine reserve and noble reticence, 

Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace 

Of tenderest courtesy, that I began 

To glance behind me at my former life, 

And find that it had been the wolf's indeed : 

And oft I talk'd with Dubric, the high saint, 

Who, with mild heat of holy oratory. 

Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness. 

Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man. 

And you were often there about the Queen, 



490 



But saw me not, or mark'd not if you saw ; 
Nor did I care or dare to speak with you, 
But kept myself aloof till I was changed ; 
And fear not, cousin ; I am changed indeed. 

He spoke, and Enid easily believed, 
Like simple noble natures, credulous 
Of what they long for, good in friend or foe. 
There most in those who most have done them ill. 
And when they rcach'd the camp the King himself 
Advanced to greet them, and beholding her 
Tho' pale, yet happy, ask'd her not a word, 
But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held 
In converse for a little, and return'd. 
And, gravely smiling, lifted her from horse. 
And kiss'd her with all pureness, brother-like, 
And show'd an empty tent allotted her, 
And glancing for a minute, till he saw her 
Pass into it, turn'd to the Prince, and said : 

" Prince, when of late you pray'd me for my leave 
To move to your own land, and there defend 
Your marches, I was prick'd with some reproof, 
As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be, 
By having look'd too much thro' alien eyes, 
And wrought too long with delegated hands, 
Not used mine own : but now behold me come 
To cleanse this common-sewer of all my realm. 
With Edyrn and Avith others : have you look'd 
At Edyrn ? have you seen how nobly changed ? 
This work of his is great and wonderful. 
His \ery face with change of heart is changed. 
The world will not believe a man repents : 
And this wise world of ours is mainly right. 
Full seldom does a man repent, or use 
Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch 
Of blood and custom wholly out of him. 
And make all clean, and plant himself afresh. 
Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart 
As I will weed this land before I go. 
I, therefore, made him of our Table Round, ,^* 
Not rashly, but have proved him every Avay 
One of our noblest, our most valorous. 
Sanest and most obedient : and indeed 
This Avork of Edyrn wrought upon himself 



491 



After a life of violence, seems to me 
A thousand fold more great and Avonderful 
Than if some knight of mine, risking his life, 
My subject with my subjects under him, 
Should make an onslaught single on a realm 
Of robbei-s, tho' he slew them one by one, 
And were himself nigh Avounded to the death." 

So spake the King ; low bow'd the Prince, and felt 
His work was neither great nor wonderful. 
And past to Enid's tent ; and hither came 
The King's own leech to look into his hurt ; 
And Enid tended on him there ; and there 
Her constant motion round him, and the breath 
Of her sweet tendance hovering over him, 
Fill'd all the genial courses of his blood 
With deeper and with ever deeper love. 
As the south-west that blowing Bala lake 
Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days. 

But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt, 
The blameless King went forth and cast his eyes 
On whom his father Uther left in charge 
Long since, to guard the justice of the King: 
He look'd and found them wanting ; and as now 
Men Aveed the white horse on the Berkshire hills 
To keep him bright and clean as heretofore. 
He rooted out the slothful officer 
Or guilty, which for bribe had wink'd at wrong, 
And in their chairs set up a stronger race 
With hearts and hands, and sent a thousand men 
To till the wastes, and moving everywhere 
Clear'd the dark places and let in the law, 
And broke the bandit-holds and cleansed the land. 

Then, when Geraint was whole again, they past 
With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. 
There the great Queen once more embraced her friend, 
And clothed her in appm-el like the day. 
And tho' Geraint could never take again 
"IThat comfort from their converse whlcli he took 
Before the Queen's fair name was breathed upon, 
He rested well content that all was well. 
Thence after tarrying for a space they rode, 
And fifty knights rode with them to the shores 



492 



Of Severn, and they past to their own land. 

And there he kept the justice of the King 

So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts 

Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died : 

And being ever foremost in the chase, 

And victor at the tilt and tournament, 

They call'd him the great Prince and man of men. 

But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call 

Enid the Fair, a grateful people named 

Enid the Good ; and in their halls arose 

The cry of children, Enids and Geraints 

Of times to be ; nor did he doubt her more 

But rested in her fealty, till he crown'd 

A happy life with a fair death, and fell 

Against the heathen of the Northern Sea 

In battle, fighting for the blameless King. 




VIVIEN. 

A STOKM was coming, but the winds were still, 
And in the Avild woods of Broceliande, 
Before an oak, so hollow, huge, and old 
It look'd a tower of ruin'd mason-work, 
At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay. 



The wily Vivien stole fi'om Arthur's court : 
She hated all the knights, and heard in thought 
Their lavish comment when her name was named. 
For once, when Arthur Avalking all alone, 
Vext at a rumor rife about the Queen, 
Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair, 
Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood 
With j-everent eyes mock-loyal, shaken Aoice, 
And flutter'd adoration, and at last 
With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more 
Than who should prize him most ; at which the King- 
Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by : 
But one had watch'd, and had not held his peace : 
It made the laughter of an afternoon 
That Vivien shouhl attempt the blameless King. 
And after that, she set herself to gain 
Him, the most famous man of all those times, 
Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts, 
Had built the King his havens, ships, and halls, 
Was also Bard, and knew the starry heavens; 
Th(,' people called him Wizard ; whom at first 



494 VIVIEN. 

She play'd about with slight and sprightly talk, 
And vivid smiles, and faintly venom'd points 
Of slander, glancing here and grazing there ; 
And yielding to his kindlier moods, the Seer 
Would watch her at her petulance, and play, 
Ev'n when they seem'd unlovable, and laugh 
As those that watch a kitten ; thus he grew 
Tolerant of what he half disdain'd, and she. 
Perceiving that she was but half disdain'd, 
Began to break her sports with graver fits, 
Turn red or pale, would often when they met 
Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him 
With such a fixt devotion, that the old man, 
Tho' doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times 
Would flatter his own wish in age for love. 
And half believe her true : for thus at times 
He waver'd ; but that other clung to him, 
Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went. 
Then fell upon him a great melancholy ; 
And leaving Arthur's court he gain'd the beach ; 
There found a little boat, and stept into it ; 
And Vivien follow'd, but he mark'd her not. 
She took the helm and he the sail ; the boat 
Drave with a sudden wind across the deeps, 
And touching Breton sands, they disembark'd. 
And then she follow'd Merlin all the way, 
Ev'n to the wild woods of Broceliande. 
For Merlin once had told her of a charm. 
The which if any wrought on any one 
With woven paces and with waving arms. 
The man so wrought on ever seem'd to lie 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower, 
From which was no escape for evermore ; 
And none could find that man for evermore, 
Nor could he see but him who wrought the charm 
Coming and going, and he lay as dead 
And lost to life and use and name and fame. 
And Vivien ever sought to work the charm 
Upon the great Enchanter of the Time, 
As fancying that her glory would be great 
According to his greatness whom she quench'd. 

There lay she all her length and kiss'd his feet, 
As if in deepest reverence and in love. 
A twist of gold was round her hair ; a robe 
Of samite without price, that more exprest 



VIVIEN. 495 

Than bid her, clung about her lissome limbs, 

In color like the satin-shining palm 

On sallows in the windy gleams of March : 

And while she kiss'd them, cr}4ng, " Trample me, 

Dear feet, that I have follow'd thro' the world, 

And I will pay you worship ; tread me down 

And I will kiss you for it ; " he was mute : 

So dark a forethought roU'd about his brain, 

As on a dull day in an Ocean cave 

The blind wave feeling round his long sea-hall 

In silence : wherefore, when she lifted up 

A face of sad appeal, and spake and said, 

" O Merlin, do you love me ? " and again, 

" O Merlin, do you love me ? " and once more, 

" Great Master, do you love me ? " he was mute. 

And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel, 

Writhed toward him, slided up his knee and sat, 

Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet 

Together, curved an arm about his neck. 

Clung like a snake ; and letting her left hand 

Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf, 

Made with her right a comb of pearl to part 

The lists of such a beard as youth gone out 

Had left in ashes ; then he spoke and said, 

Not looking at her, " Who are wise in love 

Love most, say least," and Vivien answer'd quick, 

" I saw the little elf-god eyeless once 

In Arthur's arras-hall at Camelot : 

But neither eyes nor tongue — O stupid child ! 

Yet you are wise who say it ; let me think 

Silence is wisdom : I am silent then 

And ask no kiss ; " then adding all at once, 

"And lo, I clothe myself with wisdom," drew 

The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard 

Across her neck and bosom to her knee. 

And caird herself a gilded summer-fly 

Caught in a great old tyrant spider's web. 

Who meant to eat her up in that wild wood 

Without one word. So Vivien call'd herself. 

But rather seem'd a lovel}' baleful star 

Veil'd in gray vapor ; till he sadly smiled : 

" To what request for what strange boon," he said, 

"Are these your pretty tricks and fooleries, 

O Vivien, the preamble ? yet my thanks. 

For these have broken up my melancholy." 



496 VIVIEN. 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling saucily, 
" What, O my Master, have you found your voice ? 
I bid the stranger welcome. Thanks at last ! 
But yesterday you never open'd lip, 
Except indeed to drink : no cup had we : 
In mine own lady palms I cull'd the spring 
That gather'd trickling dropwise from the cleft. 
And made a pretty cup of both my hands 
And oflfer'd you it kneeling : then you drank 
And knew no more, nor gave me one poor word ; 
O no more thanks than might a goat have given 
With no more sign of reverence than a beard. 
And when we halted at that other well, 
And I was faint to swooning, and you lay 
Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of those 
Deep meadows we had traversed, did you know 
That Yivien bathed your feet before her own ? 
And yet no thanks : and all thro' this wild wood 
And all this morning when I fondled you : 
Boon, yes, there was a boon, one not so strange — 
How had I wrorig'd you ? surely you are wise, 
But such a sil«*ice is more wise than kind." 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers and said ; 
" O did you never lie upon the shore, 
And watch the curl'd white of the coming wave 
Glass'd in the slippery sand before it breaks ? 
Ev'n such a wave, but not so pleasurable. 
Dark in the glass of some presageful mood. 
Had I for three days seen, ready to fall. 
And then I rose and fled from Arthur's court 
To break the mood. You follow'd me unask'd ; 
And when I look'd, and saw you following still, 
My mind involved yourself the nearest thing 
In that mind-mist : for shall I tell you truth ? 
You seem'd that wave about to break upon me 
And sweep me from my hold upon the world, 
My use and name and fame. Your pardon, child. 
Your pretty sports have brighten'd all again. 
And ask your boon, for boon I owe you thrice, 
Once for wrong done you by confusion, next 
For thanks it seems till now neglected, last 
For these your dainty gambols : wherefore ask ; 
And take this boon so strange and not so strange." 

And Yivien answer'd, smiling mournfully; 



497 



" O not so strange as my long asking it, 
Nor yet so strange as }'ou yourself are strange, 
Nor half so strange as that dark mood of yom's. 
I ever fear'd yon were not wholly mine ; 
And see, yourself have own'd you did me wrong. 
The people call you prophet : let it be : 
But not of those that can expound themselves. 
Take Vivien for expounder ; she will call 
That three-days-long presageful gloom of yours 
No presage, but the same mistrustful mood 
That makes you seem less noble than yourself, 
Whenever I have ask'd this very boon. 
Now ask'd again : for see you not, dear love, 
That such a mood as that, which lately gloom'd 
Your fancy when you saw me following you, 
Must make me fear still more you are not mine. 
Must make me yearn still more to j)rove you mine, 
And make me wish still more to learn this charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands. 
As proof of trust. O, Merlin, teach it me. 
The charm so taught will charm us both to rest. 
For, grant me some slight power iipon your fate, 
I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust. 
Should rest and let you rest, knowing you mine. 
And therefore be as great as you are named. 
Not muffled round with selfish reticence. 
How hard you look and how denyingly I 
O, if you think this Avickedness in me. 
That I should prove it on you unawares. 
To make you lose your use and name and fame, 
That makes me most indignant ; then our bond 
Had best be loosed forever : but think or not, 
By Pleaven that hears I tell you the clean truth, 
As clean as blood of babes, as white as milk : 
O Merhn, may this earth, if ever I, 
If these unwitty wandering wits of mine, 
Ev'n in the jumbled rubbish of a dream. 
Have tript on such conjectural treachery — 
May this hard earth cleave to the Nadir hell 
Down, down, and close again, and nip me flat, 
If I be such a traitress. Yield my boon. 
Till which I scarce can yield you all I am ; 
And grant my re-reiterated wish. 
The great proof of your love : because I think, 
However wise, you hardly know me yet." 
32. 



498 VIVIEN. 

And Merlin loosed liis hand from hers and said, 
" I never was less wise, however wise, 
Too curious Vivien, tho' you talk of trust, 
Than when I told you first of such a charm. 
Yea, if you talk of trust I tell you this, 
Too much T trusted when I told you that. 
And stirr'd this vice in you which ruin'd man 
Thro' woman the first hour ; for howsoe'er 
In children a great curiousness be well. 
Who have to learn themselves and all the world, 
In you, that are no child, for still I find 
Your face is practised, when I spell the lines, 
I call it, — well, I will not Cvall it vice : 
But since you name yourself the summer-fly, 
I well could wish a cobweb for the gnat. 
That settles, beaten back, and beaten back 
Settles, till one could yield for v/eariness : 
But since I will not yield to give you power 
Upon my life and use and name and fame. 
Why will you never ask some other boon ? 
Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too much." 

And Vivien, like the tenderest-hearted maid 
That ever bided tryst at village stile. 
Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears. 
" Nay, master, be not wrathful with your maid ; 
Caress her : let her feel herself forgiven 
Who feels no heart to ask another boon. 
I think you hardly know the tender rhyme 
Of ' Trust me not at all or all in all.' 
I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it once, 
And it shall answer for me. Listen to it. 

" ' In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, 
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: 
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. 

" ' It is the little rift within the lute. 
That by and by will make the music mute, 
And ever widening slowly silence all. 

" ' The little rift within the lover's lute, 
Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit, 
That rotting inward slowly moulders all. 



499 



" ' It is not worth the keeping : let it go : 
But shall it ? answer, darling, answer, no. 
And trust me not at all or all in all.' 

" O master, do you love my tender rhyme ? " 

And Merlin look'd and half believed her true, 
So tender was her voice, so fair her face. 
So sweetly gleam'd her eyes behind her teai^s 
Like sunlight on the plain behind a shower : 
And yet he answer'd half indignantly. 

" Far other was the song that once I heard 
By this huge oak, sung nearly where we sit : 
For here we met, some ten or tAvelve of us, 
To chase a creature that was current then 
In these wild woods, the hart with golden horns. 
It was the time when first the question rose 
About the founding of a Table Round, 
That was to be, for love of God and men 
And noble deeds, the flower of all the world. 
And each incited each to noble deeds. 
And while we waited, one, the youngest of us, 
We could not keep him silent, out he flash'd, 
And into such a song, such fire for fame, 
Such trumpet-blowings in it, coming down 
To such a stern and iron-clashing close, 
That when he stopt we long'd to hurl together, 
And should have done it ; but the beauteous beast 
Scared by the noise upstarted at our feet, 
And like a silver shadow slipt away 
Thro' the dim land ; and all day long we rode 
Thro' the dim land against a rushing wind, 
That glorious roundel echoing in our ears, 
And chased the flashes of his golden horns 
Until they vanish'd by the fairy well 
That laughs at iron — as our wamors did — 
Where children cast their pins and nails, and cry, 
' Laugh, little well,' but touch it with a sword, 
It buzzes wildly round the point ; and there 
We lost him : such a noble song was that. 
But, Vivien, when you sang me that sweet rhyme, 
I felt as tho' you knew this cursed charm. 
Were proving it on me, and that I say 
And felt them slowly ebbing, name and fame." 



500 VIVIEN. 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling mournfully ; 
" O mine have ebb'd away for evermore, 
And all tliro' following you to this wild wood, 
Because I saw you sad, to comfort you. 
Lo now, what hearts have men ! they never mount 
As high as woman in her selfless mood. 
And touching fame, howe'er you scorn my song, 
Take one verse more — the lady speaks it — this : 

" ' My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier mine, 
For fame, could fame be mine, that fame were thine, 
And shame, could shame be thine, that shame were mine. 
So trust me not at all or all in all.' 

" Says she not well? and there is more — this rhyme 
Is like the fair pearl-necklace of tho Queen, 
That burst in dancing, and the pearls were spilt ; 
Some lost, some stolen, some as relics kept. 
But nevermore the same two sister pearls 
Ran down the silken thread to kiss each other 
On her white neck — so is it with this rhyme: 
It lives dispersedly in. many hands, 
And every minstrel sings it differently ; 
Yet is there one true line, the pearl of pearls ; 
' Man dreams of Fame while woman wakes to love.' 
True : Love, tho' Love were of the grossest, carves 
A portion from the solid present, eats 
And uses, careless of the rest ; but Fame, 
The Fame that follows death is nothing to us ; 
And what is Fame in life but half-disfame, 
And counterchanged with darkness ? you yourself 
Kjiow well that Envy calls you Devil's son, 
And since you seem the Master of all Art, 
They fain would make you Master of all Yice." 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers and said, 
" I once was looking for a magic weed, 
And found a fair young squire who sat alone. 
Had carved himself a knightly shield of wood, 
And then was painting on it fancied arms, 
Azure, an Eagle rising, or the Sun 
In dexter chief; the scroll, ' I follow fame.' 
And speaking not, but leaning over him, 
I took his brush and blotted out the bird, 
And made a Gardener putting in a graff, 



VIVIEN. 501 

With tliis for motto, ' Rather use than fame.' 

You should have seen him bkish ; but afterwards 

He made a stalwart kniglit. O Vivien, 

For you, methinks you think you love me well ; 

For me, I love you somewhat ; rest : and Love 

Should have some rest and pleasure in himself. 

Not ever be too curious for a boon. 

Too prurient for a proof against the grain 

Of him you say you love : but Fame Avith men, 

Being but ampler means to serve mankind. 

Should have small rest or pleasure in herself. 

But work as vassal to the larger love. 

That dwarfs the petty love of one to one. 

Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame again 

Increasing gave me use. Lo, there my boon ! 

What other ? for men sought to prove me vile. 

Because I wish'd to give them greater minds : 

And then did Envy call me Devil's son : 

The sick weak beast seeking to help herself 

By striking at her better, miss'd, and brought 

Her own claw back, and wounded her own heart. 

Sweet were the days Avhen I was all unknown, 

But when my name was lifted up, the storm 

Bix)ke on the mountain and I cared not for it. 

Right well know I that Fame is half-disfame. 

Yet needs must work my work. That other fame, 

To one at least, who hath not children, vague, 

The cackle of the unborn about the grave, 

I cared not for it : a single misty star. 

Which is the second in a line of stars 

That seem a sword beneath a belt of three, 

I never gazed upon it but I dreamt 

Of some vast charm concluded in that star 

To make fame notliing. Wherefore, if I fear. 

Giving you power upon me thro' this charm. 

That you might play me falsely, having power. 

However well you think you love me now 

(As sons of kings loving in pupilage 

Have turn'd to tyrants when they came to power) 

I rather dread the loss of use than fame ; 

If you — and not so much from wickedness, 

As some wild turn of anger, or a mood 

Of overstrain'd affection, it may be, 

To keep me all to your own self, or else 



502 VIVIEN. 

A sudden spurt of woman's jealousy, — 

Should try this charm on whom you say you love.'* 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling as in wrath. 
" Have I not sworn ? I am not trusted. Good ! 
Well, hide it, hide it ; I shall find it out ; 
And being found take heed of Vivien. 
A woman and not trusted, doubtless I 
Might feel some sudden turn of anger born 
Of your misfaith ; and your fine epithet 
Is accurate too, for this full love of mine 
Without the full heart back may merit well 
Your term of overstrain'd. So used as I, 
My daily wonder is, I love at all. 
And as to woman's jealousy, O why not ? 

to what end, except a jealous one, 
And one to make me jealous if I love, 
Was this fair charm invented by yourself? 

1 well believe that all about this world 
You cage a buxom captive here and there, 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower 
From which is no escape for evermore." 

Then the great Master merrily answer'd her. 
" Full many a love in loving youth was mine, 
I needed then no charm to keep them mine 
But youth and love ; and that full heart of yours 
Whereof you prattle, may now assure you mine ; 
So live uncharm'd. For those who wrought it first, 
The wrist is parted from the hand that waved. 
The feet unmortised from their ankle-bones 
Who paced it, ages back : but will you hear 
The legend as in guerdon for your rhyme ? 

" There lived a king in the most Eastern East, 
Less old than I, yet older, for my blood 
Hath earnest in it of far springs to be. 
A tawny pirate anchor'd in his port. 
Whose bark had plunder'd twenty nameless isles ; 
And passing one, at the high peep of dawn. 
He saw two cities in a thousand boats 
All fighting for a woman on the sea. 
And pushing his black craft among them all. 
He lightly scatter'd theirs and brought her off. 
With loss of half his people arrow-slain ; 



503 



A maid so smooth, so white, so Avonclerful, 

They said a light came from her when she move 1 : 

And since the pirate would not yield her up, 

The King impaled him for his piracy ; 

Then made her Queen : but those isle-nurtur'd eyes 

AVaged such unwilling tho' successful war 

On all the youth, they sicken'd ; councils thinn'd, 

And armies waned, for magnet-like she drew 

The rustiest iron of old fighters' hearts ; 

And beasts themselves would worship ; camels knelt 

Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain back 

That carry kings in castles, bow'd black knees 

Of homage, ringing with their serpent-hands, 

To make her smile, her golden ankle-bells. 

What wonder, being jealous, that he sent 

His horns of proclamation out thro' all 

The hundred under-kingdoms that he sway'd 

To find a wizard who might teach the King 

Some charm, which being wrought upon the Queen 

Might keep her all his own : to such a one 

He promised more than ever king has given, 

A league of mountain full of golden mines, 

A province with a hundred miles of coast, 

A palace and a princess, all for him : 

But on all those Avho tried and fail'd, the King 

Pronounced a dismal sentence, meaning by it 

To keep the list low and pretenders back, ♦ 

Or like a king, not to be trifled with — 

Their heads should moulder on the city gates. 

And many tried and fail'd, because the charm 

Of nature in her overbore their own : 

And many a wizard brow bleach'd on the walls : 

And many weeks a troop of carrion-crows 

Hung like a cloud above the gateway towers." 

And Vivien breaking in upon him, said : 
" I sit and gather honey ; yet, methinks, 
Your tongue has tript a little : ask yourself 
The lady never made unwilling war 
With those fine eyes : she had her pleasure in it, 
And made her good man jealous with good cause. 
And lived there neither dame nor damsel then 
AVroth at a lover's loss ? were all as tame, 
I mean, as noble, as their Queen was fair V 
Not one to flirt a venon at her eyes, 



504 



VI VI EX. 



Or i)liicli a murderous dust into her drink, 
Or make her paler with a poison'd rose ? 
Well, tiiose were not our days : but did they find 
A wizard V Tell me, was he like to thee?" 




She ceased, and made her lithe arm round his neck 
Tighten, and then drew back, and let her eyes 
Speak for her, glowing on him, like a bride's 
On her new lord, her own, the first of men. 



He answer'd laughing, " Nay, not like to me. 
At last they found — his foragers tor chai-ins — 
A little glassy-headed, hairless man, 
Who lived alone in a great wild on grass ; 
Read but one book, and ever reading grew 



VIVIEN. 505 

So grated down and filed away with thought, 

So lean his eyes were monstrous ; while the skin 

Clung but to crate and basket, ribs and spine. 

And since he kept his mind on one sole aim, 

Nor ever touch'd fierce wine, nor tasted flesh, 

Nor own'd a sensual wish, to him the wall 

That sunders ghosts and shadow-casting men 

Became a crystal, and he saw them thro' it. 

And heard their voices talk behind the wall, 

And learnt their elemental secrets, powers 

And forces ; often o'er the sun's bright eye 

Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud, 

And lash'd it at the base with slanting storm; 

Or in the noon of mist and driving rain, 

When the lake whiten'd and the pine-wood roar'd, 

And the cairn'd mountain was a shadow, sunn'd 

The world to peace again : here Avas the man. 

And so by force they dragg'd him to the King. 

And then he taught the King to charm the Queen 

In such-wise, that no man could see her more, 

Nor saw she save the King, who wrought the charm, 

Coming and going, and she lay as dead, 

And lost all use of life : but Avhen the King 

Made proffer of the league of golden mines, 

The province with a hundred miles of coast. 

The palace and the princess, that old man 

Went back to his old wild, and lived on grass, 

And vanish'd, and his book came down to me." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling saucily ; 
" You have the book : the charm is written in it : 
Good : take my counsel : let me know it at once : 
For keep it like a puzzle chest in chest, 
With each chest lock'd and padlock'd* thirty-fold, 
And whelm all this beneath as vast a mound 
As after furious battle turfs the slain 
On some wild down above the windy deep, 
I yet should strike upon a sudden means 
To dig, pick, open, find and read the charm : 
Then, if I tried It, who should blame me then ? " 

And smiling as a Master smiles at one 
That is not of his school, nor any school 
But that where blind and naked Ignorance 
Delivers brawling judgments, unashamed. 
On all things all day long : he answer'd her. 



506 VIVIEN. 

" You read the book, my pretty Yivlen ! 
O ay, it is but twenty pages long, 
But every page having an ample marge, 
And every marge enclosing in the midst 
A square of text that looks a little blot, 
The text no larger than the limbs of fleas ; 
And every square of text an awful charm, 
Writ in a language that has long gone by. 
So long, that mountains have arisen since 
With cities on their flanks — you read the book ! 
And every margin scribbled, crost, and cramm'd 
With comment, densest condensation, hard 
To mind and eye ; but the long sleepless nights 
Of my long life have made it easy to me. 
And none can read the text, not even I ; 
And none can read the comment but myself; 
And in the comment did I find the charm. 
O, the results are simple ; a mere child 
Might use it to the harm of any one, 
And never could undo it : ask no more : 
For tho' you should not prove it upon me. 
But keep that oath you swore, you might, perchance, 
Assay it on some one of the Table Round, 
And all because you dream they babble of you." 

And Vivien, frowning in true anger, said : 
" What dare the full-fed liars say of me ? 
They ride abroad redressing human wrongs ! 
They sit with knife in meat and wine in horn. 
They bound to holy vows of chastity ! 
Were I not woman, I could tell a tale. 
But you are man, you well can understand 
The shame that cannot be explain'd for shame. 
Not one of all the drove should touch me : swine ! " 

Then answer'd Merlin careless of her words. 
" You breathe but accusation vast and vague. 
Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If you know, 
Set up the charge you know, to stand or fall ! " 

And Vivien answer'd, fi^owning wrathfully. 
" O ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, him 
Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er his wife 
And two fair babes, and went to distant lands ; 
Was one year gone, and on returning found 



VIVIEN. 507 

Not two but three : there lay tlie reckling, one 
But one hour old ! What said the happy sire ? 
A seven months' babe had been a truer gift. 
Those twelve sweet moons confused his fatherhood." 

Then answer'd Merlin, " Nay, I know the tale. 
Sir Valence wedded with an outland dame : 
Some cause had kept him sunder'd from his Avlfe : 
One child they had : it lived with her : she died : 
His kinsman travelling on his own affair 
Was charged by Valence to bring home the child. 
He brought, not found it therefore : take the truth." 

" O ay," said Vivien, " overtrue a tale. 
What say ye then to sweet Sir Sagramore, 
That ardent man ? ' to pluck the flower in season ; ' 
So says the song, ' I trow it is no treason.' 

Master, shall we call him over-quick 

To crop his own sweet rose before the hour ? " 

And Merlin answer'd, " Over-quick are you 
To catch a lothly plume fall'n from the wing 
Of that foul bird of rapine whose whole prey 
Is man's good name : he never wrong'd his bride. 

1 know the tale. An angry gust of wind 
Puff"'d out his torch among the myraid-room'd 
And many-corridor'd complexities 

Of Arthur's palace : then he found a door 
And darkling felt the sculptured ornament 
That wreathen round it made it seem his own ; 
And wearied out made for the couch and slept, 
A stainless man beside a stainless maid ; 
And either slept, nor knew of other there ; 
Till the high dawn piercing the royal rose 
In Arthur's casement glimraer'd chastely down, 
Blushing upon them blushing, and at once 
He rose without a word and parted from her : 
But when the thing was blazed about the court, 
The brute world howling forced them into bonds, 
And as it chanced they are happy, being pure." 

" O ay," said Vivien, " that were likely too. 
What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale 
And of the hoi-rid foulness that lie wrought, 
The saintly youth, the spotless lamb of Christ, 



508 VIVIEN. 

Or some black wether of St. Satan's fold. 
What, in the precincts of the cliapel-yard, 
Among the knightly brasses of the graves, 
And by the cold Hie Jacets of the dead ! " 

And Merlin answered careless of her charge. 
"A sober man is Percivale and pure ; 
But once in life was fluster'd with new wine. 
Then paced for coolness in the chapel-yard ; 
Where one of Satan's shepherdesses caught 
And meant to stamp him with her master's mark ; 
And that he sinn'd, is not believable ; 
For, look upon his face ! — but if he sinn'd, 
The sin that practice burns into the blood, 
And not the one dark hour which brings remorse, 
Will brand us, after, of whose fold we be : 
Or else were he, the holy king, whose hymns 
Are chanted in the minster, worse than all. 
But is your spleen froth'd out, or have ye more ? " 

And Vivien answer'd, frowning yet in wrath ; 
" O ay ; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, friend ? 
Traitor or true ? that commerce with the Queen, 
I ask you, is it clamor'd by the child. 
Or whisper'd in the corner ? do you know it ? " 

To which he answer'd sadly, " Yea, I know it. 
Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at first. 
To fetch her, and she took him for the King ; 
So fixt her fancy on him : let him be. 
But have you no one word of loyal praise 
For Arthur, blameless King and stainless man ? " 

She answer'd with a low and chuckling laugh ; 
" Him ? is he man at all, who knows and Avinks ? 
Sees what his fair bride is and does, and winks ? 
By Avhich the good King means to blind himself. 
And blinds himself and all the Table Round 
To all the foulness that they work. Myself 
Could call him (were it not for womanhood) 
The pretty, popular name such manhood earns. 
Could call him the main cause of all their crime ; 
Yea, were he not crown'd king, coward, and fool.'* 

Then Merlin to his own heart, loathing, said ; 



VIVIEN. 509 

" O true and tender ! O my liege and king ! 

selfless m:in and stainless gentleman, 

Who woLild'st against thine own eye-witness fain 

Have all men true and leal, all women pure ; 

How, in the mouths of base interpreters, 

From over-fineness not intelligible 

To thing-s with every sense as false and foul 

As the poach'd filth that floods the middle street, 

Is thy white blamelessness accounted blame ! " 

But Vivien deeming Merlin overborne 
By instance, recommenced, and let her tongue 
Kage like a fire among the noblest names. 
Polluting, and imputing her whole self, 
Defaming and defacing, till she left 
Not even Lancelot brave, nor Galahad clean. 

Her words had issue other than she will'd. 
He dragg'd his eyebrow bushes down, and made 
A snowy penthouse for his hollow eyes. 
And mutter'd in himself, " Tell her the charm ! 
So, if she had il, would she rail on me 
To snare the next, and if she have it not. 
So will she rail. AVhat did the wanton say ? 
' Not mount as high ; ' we scarce can sink as low : 
For men at most differ as Heaven and earth, 
But women, Avorst and best, as Heaven and Hell. 

1 know the Table Round, my friends of old ; 
All brave, and many generous, and some chaste. 
I think she cloaks the wounds of loss Avith lies ; 
I do believe she tempted them and fail'd. 

She is so bitter : for fine plots may fail, 
Tho' harlots paint their talk as well as face 
With coloi-s of the heart that are not theirs. 
I will not let her know : nine tithes of times 
Face-flatterei-s and backbiters are the same. 
And they, sweet souls, that most impute a crime 
Are pronest to it, and impute themselves, 
Wanting the mental range ; or low desire 
Not to feel lowest makes them level all ; 
Yea, they would pare the mountain to the plain, 
To leave an equal baseness ; and in this 
Are harlots like the crowd, that if they find 
Some stain or blemish in a name of note. 
Not grieving that their greatest are so small, 



510 



Inflate themselves with some Insane delight, 
And judge all nature from her feet of clay, 
Without the will to lift their eyes, and see 
Her godlike head crown'd with spiritual fire, 
And touching other worlds. I am weary of her." 

He spoke In words part heard, In whispers part. 
Half-suffocated In the hoary fell 
And many-wlnter'd fleece of throat and chin. 
But Vivien, gathering somewhat of his mood. 
And hearing "harlot" mutter'd twice or thrice, 
Leapt from her session on his lap, and stood 
Stiff as a viper frozen ; loathsome sight, 
How from the rosy lips of life and love, 
Flash'd the bare-grlrmlng skeleton of death ! 
White was her cheek ; sharp breaths of anger puff 'd 
Her fairy nostril out ; her hand half-clench'd 
Went faltering sideways downward to her belt, 
And feeling ; had she found a dagger there 
(For In a wink the false love turns to hate) 
She would have stabb'd him ; but she found it not : 
His eye was calm, and suddenly she took 
To bitter weeping like a beaten child, 
A long, long weeping, not consolable. 
Then her false voice made way broken with sobs. 

" O crueller than was ever told In tale, 
Or sung In song ! O vainly lavish 'd love ! 

cruel, there was nothing wild or strange. 
Or seeming shameful, for what shame In love, 
So love be true, and not as yours Is — nothing 
Poor Vivien had not done to win his trust 

Who call'd her what he call'd her — all her crime, 
All — all — the wish to prove him wholly hers." 

She mused a little, and then clapt her hands 
Together with a walling shriek, and said : 
" Stabb'd through the heart's affections to the heart ! 
Seeth'd like the kid In Its own mother's milk ! 
Klll'd with a word worse than a life of blows ! 

1 thought that he was gentle, being great : 

God, that I had loved a smaller man ! 

1 should have found in him a greater heart. 
O, I, that flattering my true passion, saw 

The knights, the court, the king, dark In your light, 



VIVIEN. 5] 1 

AVho loved to make men darker tlian Ihey are, 

Because of that high pleasure which I had 

To seat you sole upon my pedestal 

Of woi-ship — I am answer'd, and henceforth 

The course of life that seem'd so flowery to me 

With you for guide and master, only you, 

Becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken short, 

And ending in a ruin — nothing left, 

But into some low cave to crawl, and there, 

If the wolf spare me, weep my Yii'e away, 

Kill'd with inutterable unkiudliness." 

She paused, she turn'd away, she hung her head. 
The snake of gold slid from her hair, the braid 
Slipt and uncoil'd itself, she wept afresh, 
xVnd the dark wood grew darker toward the storm 
In silence, Avhile his anger slowly died 
Within him, till he let his wisdom go 
For ease of heart, and half believed her true : 
Call'd her to shelter in the hollow oak, 
" Come from the storm," and having no reply. 
Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and the face 
Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or shame ; 
Then thrice essay'd, by tenderest-touching terms 
To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in vain. 
At last she let herself be conquer'd by him. 
And as the cageling newly flown returns,- 
The seeming-injured, simple-hearted thing 
Came to her old perch back, and settled there. 
There while she sat, half-falling from his knees, 
Half-nestled at his heart, and since he saw 
The slow tear creep from her closed eyelid yet. 
About her, more in kindness than in love. 
The gentle wizard cast a shielding arui. 
But she dislink'd herself at once and rose, 
Her arms upon her breast across, and stood 
A virtuous gentlewoman deeply wrong'd. 
Upright and flush'd before him : then she said : 

" There must'be now no passages of love 
Betwixt us twain henceforward evermore. 
Since, if I be what I am grossly call'd, 
What should be granted which your own gross heart 
Would reckon worth the taking ? I will go. 
In truth, but one thing now — better have died 



512 VIVIEN. 

Thrice than have ask'd it once — could make me stay — 

That proof of trust — so often ask'd in vain ! 

How justly, after that vile term of yours, 

I find with grief! I might believe you then, 

Who knows ? once more. O, what was once to me 

Mere matter of the fancy, now has grown 

The vast necessity of heart and life. 

Farewell ; think kindly of me, for I fear 

My fate or fault, omitting gayer youth 

For one so old, must be to love you still. 

But ere I leave you let me swear once more 

That if I schemed against your peace in this. 

May yon just heaven, that darkens o'er me, send 

One flash, that, missing all things else, may make 

My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie." 

Scarce had she ceased, when out of heaven a bolt 
(For now the storm Avas close above them) struck, 
Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining 
With darted spikes and splinters of the wood 
The dark earth round. He raised his eyes and saw 
The tree that shone white-listed thro' the gloom. 
But Vivien, fearing Heaven had heard her oath. 
And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork. 
And deafen'd with the stammering cracks and claps 
That follow'd, flying back and crying out, 
" Merlin, tho' you do not love me, save. 
Yet save me ! " clung to him and hugg'd him close ; 
And call'd him dear protector in her fHght, 
Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright, 
But wrought upon his mood and hugg'd him close. 
The pale blood of the wizard at her touch 
Took gayer colors, like an opal warm'd. 
She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales : 
She shook from fear, and for her fault she wept 
Of petulancy ; she call'd him lord and liege, 
Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve, 
Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate love 
Of her whole life ; and ever overhead 
Bellow'd the tempest, and the rotten branch 
Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain 
Above them ; and in change of glare and gloom 
Her eyes and neck glittering went and came ; 
Till now the storm, its burst of passion spent, 
Moaning and calling out of other lands, 



513 



Had left the ravaged woodland yet once more 

To peace; and what should not have been had been, 

For Merlin, overtalk'd and overworn, 

Had yielded, told her all the charm, and slept. 

Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands. 
And in the hollow oak he lay as dead, 
And lost to life and use and name and ftime. 

Then crying, " I have made his glory mine." 
And shrieking out, " O fool ! " the harlot leapt 
Adown the forest, and the thicket closed 
Behind her, and the forest echo'd, " Fool." 




ELAINE. 



Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable, 

Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, 

High in her chamber up a tower to the east 

Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot; 

Which first she placed where morning's earliest ray 

Might strike it, and awake her Avith the gleam ; 

Then fearing rust or soilure fashion'd for it 

A case of silk, and braided thereupon 

All the devices blazon'd on the shield 

In their own tinct, and added, of her wit, 

A border-fantasy of branch and flower. 

And yellow throated nestling in the nest. 

Nor rested thus content, but day by day 

Leaving her household and good father climb'd 

That eastern tower, and entering barr'd her door, 

Stript off the case, and read the naked shield. 

Now guess'd a hidden meaning In his arms, 

Now made a pretty history to herself 

Of every dint a sword had beaten in It, 

And every scratch a lance had made upon it, 

Conjecturing when and where : this cut is fresh ; 

That ten yeare back ; this dealt him at Caerlyle ; 

That at Caerleon ; this at Camelot : 

And ah, God's mercy what a stroke Avas there ! 

And here a thrust that might have Idll'd, but God 

Broke the strong lance, and roU'd his enemy down, 

And saved him : so she lived in fantasy. 



515 



How came tlie lily maid by that good shield 
Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n his name ? 
He left it Avith her, when he rode to tilt 
For the great diamond in the diamond-jousts, 
Which Arthur had ordain'd, iind by that name 
Had named them, since a diamond was the prize. 

For Arthur when none knew fi'om whence he came, 
Long ere the people chose him for their king. 
Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse, 
Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn. 
A horror lived about the tarn, and clave 
Like its own mists to all the mountain-side : 
For here two brothers, one a king, had met 
And fought together ; but their names were lost. 
And each had slain his brother at a blow, 
And down they fell and made the glen abhorr'd : 
And there they lay till all their bones were bleach'd, 
And lichen'd into color with the crags : 
And he, that once was king, had on a crown 
Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside. 
And Arthur came, and laboring up the pass 
All in a misty moonshine, unawares 
Had trodden that crown'd skeleton, and the skull 
Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown 
Roll'd into light, and turning on its rims 
Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn : 
And down tlie shingly scaur he plunged, and caught, 
And set it on his head, and in his heart 
Heard murmurs, " Lo, thou likewise shalt be king." 

Thereafter, when a king, he had the gems 
Pluck'd from the crown, and show'd them to his knights, 
Saying, " These jewels, whereupon I chanced 
Divinely, are the kingdom's not the king's — 
For public use : henceforward let there be. 
Once every year, a joust for one of these : 
For so by nine years' proof we needs must learn 
Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow 
In use of arms and manhood, till we drive 
The Heathen, Avho, some say, shall rule the land 
Hereafter, which God hinder." Thus he spoke : 
And eight yeai-s past, eight jousts had been, and still 
Had Lancelot won the diamond of the year, 
With purpose to present them to the Queen, 



516 



^^Tien all were won ; but meaning all at once 

To snare her royal fancy with a boon 

Worth half her realm, had never spoken word. 

Now for the central diamond and the last 
And largest, Arthur, holding then his court 
Hard on the river nigh the place which now 
Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust 
At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh 
Spake (for she had been sick) to Guinevere, 
"Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot move 
To these fair jousts ? " " Yea, lord," she said, " you know it. 
" Then -will you miss," he answer'd, " the great deeds 
Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists, 
A sight you love to look on." And the Queen 
Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly 
On Lancelot, where he stood beside the King. 
He thinking that he read her meaning there, 
" Stay with me, I am sick ; my lo"\'e is more 
Than many diamonds," yielded, and a heart, 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen 
(However much he yearn'd to make complete 
The tale of diamonds for his destined boon) 
Urged him to speak against the truth, and say, 
" Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly whole, 
And lets me from the saddle ; " and the King 
Glanced first at him, then her, and went his way. 
No sooner gone than suddenly she began. 

" To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much to blame. 
Why go you not to these fair jousts ? the knights 
Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd 
Will murmur, lo the shameless ones, who take 
Their pastime now the trustful king is gone ! " 
Then Lancelot vext at having lied in vain : 
"Are you so wise ? you were not once so wise. 
My Queen, that summer, when you loved me first. 
Then of the crowd you took no more account 
Than of the myriad cricket of the mead. 
When its own voice clings to each blade of grass, 
And every voice is nothing. As to knights, 
Them surely can I silence with all ease. 
But now my loyal worship is allow'd 
Of all men : many a bard, without ofience, 
Has link'd our names together in his lay. 



517 



Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guinevere, 
The pearl of beauty : and our knights at feast 
Have pledged us in this union, while the king 
Would listen smiling. How then ? is there more ? 
Has Arthur spoken aught ? or would yourself, 
Kow weary of my service and devoir, 
Henceforth be truer to }-our faultless lord ? " 

She broke into a little scornful laugh. 
"Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King, 
That passionate perfection, my good lord — 
But who can gaze upon the Sun in heaven ? 
He never spake word of reproach to me, 
He never had a glimpse of mine untruth, 
He cares not for me : only here to-day 
There gleam'd a vague suspicion in his eyes : 
Some meddling rogue has tamper'd with him — else 
Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, 
And swearing men to vows impossible, 
To make them like himself: but, friend, to me 
He is all fault Avho hath no fault at all : 
For who loves me must have a touch of earth ; 
The low sun makes the color : I am yours. 
Not Arthur's, as you know, save by the bond. 
And therefore hear my words : go to the jousts : 
The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dream 
When sweetest ; and the vermin-voices here 
May buzz so loud — we scorn them, but they sting." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights. 
"And Avith what face, after my pretext made, 
Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I 
Before a king who honors his own word. 
As if it were his God's ? " 

" Yea," said the Queen, 
"A moral child without the craft to rule. 
Else had he not lost me : but listen to me, 
If I must find you wit : we hear it said 
That men go down before your spear at a touch 
But knowing you are Lancelot ; your great name, 
This conquers : hide it therefore ; go unknown : 
Win ! by this kiss you will : and our true king 
Will then allow your pretext, O my knight. 
As all for glory ; for to speak him true, 
You know right well, how meek soe'er he seem, 



518 ELAINE, 

No keener hunter after glory breathes. 

He loves it in his knights more than himself: 

They prove to him his work : win and return." 

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse, 
Wroth at himself: not willing to be known, 
He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare, 
Chose the green path that show'd the rarer foot, 
And there among the solitary downs, 
Full often lost in fancy, lost his way ; 
Till as he traced a faintly-shadow'd track, 
That all in loops and links among the dales 
Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw 
Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers. 
Thither he made and wound the gateway-horn. 
Then came an old, dmnb, myriad-wrinkled man. 
Who let him into lodging and disarm'd. 
And Lancelot marvell'd at the wordless man ; 
And issuing found the Lord of Astolat 
With two strong sons. Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine, 
Moving to meet him in the castle-court ; 
And close behind them stept the lily maid 
Elaine, his daughter: mother of the house 
There was not : some light jest among them rose 
With laughter dying down as the great knight 
Approach'd them : then the Lord of Astolat. 
" Whence comest thou, my guest, and by what name 
Livest between the lips ? for by thy stale 
And presence I might guess thee chief of those, 
After the king, who eat in Arthur's halls. 
Him have I seen : the rest, his Table Round, 
Known as they are, to me they are unknown." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights. 
" Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and known. 
What I by mere mischance have brought, my shield. 
But since I go to joust as one unknown 
At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not. 
Hereafter you shall know me — and the shield — 
I pray you lend me one, if such you have. 
Blank, or at least with some device not mine." 

Then said the Lord of Astolat, " Here is Torre's : 
Hurt in his first tilt was my son. Sir Torre. 
And so, God wot, his shield is blank enough. 



519 



His you can have." Then added plain Sir Torre, 
" Yea, since I cannot use it, you may have it." 
Here laugh'd the father saying, " Fie, Sir Churl, 
Is that an answer for a noble knight ? 
Allow him : but Lavaine, my younger here, 
He is so full of lustihood, he will ride. 
Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour 
And set it in this damsel's golden hair, 
To make her thrice as Avilful as before." 

" Nay, father, nay, good father, shame me not 
Before this noble knight," said young Lavaine, 
" For nothing. Surely I but play'd on Torre : 
He seem'd so sullen, vext he could not go : 
A jest, no more : for, knight, the maiden dreamt 
That some one put this diamond in her hand, 
And that it was too slippery to be held. 
And slipt and fell into some pool or stream, 
The castle-well, belike ; and then I said 
That ifl went and ifl fought and won it 
(But all was jest and joke among ourselves) 
Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest. 
But, father, give me leave, an if he will, 
To ride to Camelot with this noble knight : 
Win shall I not, but do my best to win : 
Young as I am, yet would I do my best." 

" So you will grace me," answer'd Lancelot, 

Smiling a moment, " with your fellowship 

O'er these waste downs whereon I lost myself. 

Then were I glad of you as guide and friend ; 

And you shall win this diamond — as I hear, 

It is a fair large diamond, — if you may. 

And yield it to this maiden, if you will." 

"A fair large diamond," added plain Sir Torre, 

" Such be for Queens and not for simple maids." 

Then she, who held her eyes upon the ground, 

Elaine, and heard her name so tost about, 

Flush'd slightly at the slight disparagement 

Before the stranger knight, who, looking at her, 

Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus return'd. 

" If what is fair be but for what is fair, 

And only Queens are to be counted so. 

Rash were my judgment then, who deem this maid 

Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth, 

Not violating the bond of like to like." 



520 ELAINE. 

He spoke and ceased : the lilj maid Elaine, 
Won by the mellow voice before she look'd, 
Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments. 
The great and guilty love he bare the Queen, 
In battle with the love he bare his lord, 
Had marr'd his face, and mark'd it ere his time. 
Another sinning on such heights with one. 
The flower of all the west and all the world, 
Had been the sleeker for it : but in him 
His mood was often like a fiend, and rose 
And drove him into wastes and solitudes 
For agony, who was yet a living soul. 
Marr'd as he was, he seemed the goodliest man, 
That ever among ladies ate in Hall, 
And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes, y 
However marr'd, of more than twice her years, 
Seam'd with an ancient sword-cut on the cheek, 
And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes 
And loved him, with that love which was her doom. 

Then the great knight, the darling of the court, 
Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall 
Stept with all grace, and not with half disdain 
Hid under grace, as in a smaller time. 
But kindly man moving among his kind : 
Whom they with meats and vintage of their best 
And talk and minstrel-melody entertain'd. 
And much they ask'd of court and Table Round, 
And ever well and readily answer'd he : 
But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guinevere, 
Suddenly speaking of the wordless man. 
Heard from the Baron that, ten years before. 
The heathen caught and reft him of his tongue. 
" He learnt and warn'd me of their fierce design 
Against my house, and him they caught and maim'd ; 
But I, my sons, and little daughter fled 
From bonds or death, and dwelt among the woods 
By the great river, in a boatman's hut. 
Dull days were those, till our good Arthur broke 
The Pagan yet once more on Badon hill." 

" O there, great Lord, doubtless," Lavaine said, rapt 
By all the sweet and sudden passion of youth 
Toward greatness in its elder, " you have fought. 
O tell us ; for we live apart, you know 



ELAINE. 521 

Of Arthur's glorious wars." And Lancelot spoke 
And answer'd him at full, as having been 
With Arthur in the fight which all day long 
Rang by the white mouth of the violent Glem ; 
And in the four Avild battles by the shore 
Of Duglas ; that on Bassa ; then the war 
That thunder'd in and out the gloomy skirts 
Of Celidon the forest ; and again 
By castle Gurnion where the glorious King- 
Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's Head, 
Carved of one emerald, center'd in a sun 
Of silver rays, that lighten'd as he breathed; 
And at Caerleon had he help'd his lord, 
When the strong neighings of the wild white Horse 
Set every gilded parapet shuddering ; 
And up in Agned Cathregonion too. 
And down the waste sand-shores of Trath Treroit, 
Where many a heathen fell ; " and on the mount 
Of Badon I myself beheld the King- 
Charge at the head of all his Table Round, 
And all his legions crying Christ and him, 
And break them ; and I saw him, after, stand 
High on a heap of slain, from spur to j^lume 
Red as the rising sun with heathen blood. 
And seeing me, with a great voice he cried, 
' They are broken, they are broken,' for the King, 
However mild he seems at home, nor cares 
For triumph In our mimic Avars, the jousts — 
For If his own knight cast him down, he laughs. 
Saying his knights are better men than he — 
Yet in this heathen war the fire of God 
Fills him : I never saw his like : there lives 
No greater leader." 

While he utter'd this, 
Low to her own heart said the lily maid, 
" Save your great self, fair lord ; " and when he fell 
From talk of war to traits of pleasantry — 
Being mirthful he but in a stately kind — 
She still took note that Avhen the living smile 
Died fi'oin his lips, across him came a cloud 
Of melancholy severe, from which again, 
Whenever in her hovering to and fro 
The lily maid had striven to make him cheer, 
There brake a sudden-beaming tenderness 
Of manners and of nature : and she thouirht 



522 ELAINE. 

That all was nature, all, perchance, for her. 

And all night long his face before her lived, 

As when a painter, poring on a face. 

Divinely thro' all hindrance finds the man 

Behind it, and so paints him that his face, 

The shape and color of a mind and life, 

Lives for his children, ever at its best 

And fullest ; so the face before her lived. 

Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full 

Of noble things, and held her from her sleep. 

Till rathe she rose, half cheated in the thought 

She needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine. 

First as in fear, step after step, she stole 

Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating . 

Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court, 

" This shield, my fi:-iend, where is it ? " and Lavaine 

Past inward, as she came from out the tower. 

There to his proud horse Lancelot turn'd, and smooth'd 

The glossy shoulder, humming to himself 

Half envious of the flattering hand, she drew 

Nearer and stood. He look'd, and more amazed 

Than if seven men had set upon him, saw 

The maiden standing in the dewy light. 

He had not dream'd she was so beautiful. 

Then came on him a sort of sacred fear. 

For silent, tho' he greeted her, she stood 

Rapt on his face as if it were a God's. 

Suddenly flash'd on her a wild desire. 

That he should wear her favor at the tilt. 

She braved a riotous heart in asking for it. 

" Fair lord, whose name I know not — noble it is, 

I well believe, the noblest — will you wear 

My favor at this tourney ? " " Nay," said he, 

" Fair lady, since I never yet have worn 

Favor of any lady in the lists. 

Such is my wont, as those, who know me, know." 

" Yea, so," she answer'd ; " then in wearing mine 

Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord. 

That those who know should know you." And he turn'd 

Her counsel up and down within his mind. 

And found it true, and answer'd, " True, my child. 

Well, I will wear it : fetch it out to me : 

What is it ? " and she told him "A red sleeve 

Broider'd with pearls," and brought it : then he bound 

Her token on his helmet, with a smile 



523 



Saying, " I uever yet have done 8u much 
For any maiden living," and the blood 
Sprang to her face and fill'd her Avith delight : 
But left her all the paler, when Lavaine 
Returning brought the yet-unblazon'd shield, 
His brother's ; Avhich he gave to Lancelot, 
Who parted with his own to fair Elaine ; 




" Do me this grace, my child, to have my shield 
In keeping till I come." "A grace to me," 
She answer'd, " twice to-day. I am your Squire." 
Wheieat Lavaine said, laughing, "Lily maid, 
For fear our people call you Lily maid 



524 ELAINE. 

In earnest, let me bring your color back ; 

Once, twice, and thrice : now get you hence to bed : ' 

So kiss'd her, and Sir Lancelot his own hand, 

And thus they moved away : she stay'd a minute, 

Then made a sudden step to the gate, and there — 

Her bright hair blown about the serious face 

Yet rosy-kindled with her brother's kiss — 

Paused in the gateway, standing by the shield 

In silence, while she watch'd their arms far off 

Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs. 

Then to her tower she climb'd, and took the shield, 

There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. 

Meanwhile the new companions past away 
Far o'er the long backs of the bushless downs. 
To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived a knight 
Not far from Camelot, now for forty years 
A hermit, who had pray'd, labor'd, and pray'd, 
And ever laboring had scoop'd himself 
In the white rock a chapel and a hall 
On massive columns, like a shore-cliff cave. 
And cells and chambers : all were fair and dry ; 
The green light from the meadows underneath 
Struck up and lived along the milky roofs ; 
And in the meadows tremulous aspen-trees 
And poplars made a noise of falling showers. 
And thither wending there that night they bode. 

But when the next day broke from underground, 
And shot red fire and shadows tliro' the cave, 
They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode away : 
Then Lancelot saying, " Hear, but hold my name 
Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake," 
Abash'd Lavaine, whose instant reverence. 
Dearer to true young hearts than their own praise. 
But left him leave to stammer, " Is it indeed ? " 
And after muttering, " The great Lancelot," 
At last be got his breath and answer'd, " One, 
One have I seen — that o||ier, our liege lord. 
The dread P.eiidragon, Britain's king of kings, 
Of whom the people talk mysteriously. 
He will be there — then were I stricken blind 
That minute, I might say that I had seen." 

So spake Lavaine, and when they reach'd the lists 



ELAINE. 525 

By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes 

Run thro' the peopled gallery which half round 

Lay like a rainbow foll'n upon the grass, 

Until they found the clear-faced King, who sat 

Robed in red samite, easily to be known, 

Since to his crown the golden dragon clung, 

And down his robe the dragon ^vl'ithed in gold. 

And from the carven-work behind him crept 

Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make 

Arms for his chair, while all the rest of them 

Thro' knots and loops and folds innumerable 

Fled ever thro' the woodwork, till they found 

The new design wherein they lost themselves, 

Yet with all ease, so tender was the work : 

And, in the costly canopy o'er him set. 

Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king/ 

Then Lancelot answer'd young Lavaine and said,, _ 

" Me you call great : mine is the firmer seat, 

The truer lance : but there is many a youth 

Now crescent, who Avill come to all I am 

And overcome it; and in me there dwells 

No greatness, save it be some far-off touch 

Of greatness to know well I am not great : 

There is the man." And Lavaine gaped upon him 

As on a thing miraculous, and anon 

The trumpets blew ; and then did either side, 

They that assail'd, and they that held the lists, 

Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move, 

Meet in the midst, and there so furiously 

Shock, that a man far off might well perceive. 

If any man that day were left afield. 

The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arms. 

And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw 

Which were the weaker ; then he hurl'd into it 

Against the stronger : little need to speak 

Of Lancelot in his glory : King, duke, earl, 

Count, baron — whom he smote, he overthrew. 

But in the field were Lancelot's kith and kin, 
Ranged with the Table Round that held the lists, 
Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight 
Should do and almost overdo the deeds 
Of Lancelot ; and one said to the other, " Lo ! 
What is he ? I do not mean the force alone, 
The grace and versatility of the man — 



526 ELAINE. 

Is it not Lancelot ? " " When has Lancelot worn 

Favor of any lady In the lists ? 

Not such his wont, as we, that know him, know." 

" How then ? who then ? " a fury seized on them, 

A fiery family passion for the name 

Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs. 

They couch'd their spears and prick'd their steeds and thus, 

Their plumes driv'n backward by the wind they made 

In moving, all together down upon liim 

Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North Sea, 

Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with all 

Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies, 

Down on a bark, and overbears the bark, 

And him that helms it, so they overbore 

Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear 

Down-glancing lamed the charger, and a spear 

Prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and the head 

Pierced thro' his side, and there snapt, and remain'd. 

Then Sir Lavaine did well and worshipfully ; 
He bore a knight of old repute to the earth. 
And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay. 
He up the side, sweating with agony, got. 
But thouo-ht to do while he miffht vet endure, 
And being lustily holpen by the rest. 
His party, — tho' it seemed half-miracle 
To those he fought with — drave his kith and kin. 
And all the Table Round that held the lists, 
Back to the barrier; then the heralds blew 
Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the sleeve 
Of scarlet, and the pearls ; and all the knights, 
His party, cried, "Advance, and take your prize, 
The diamond ;." but he answer'd, " Diamond me 
No diamonds ! for God's love, a little air ! 
Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death ! 
Hence will I, and I charge you, follow me not." 

He spoke, and vanish'd suddenly from the field 
With young Lavaine into the poplar-grove. 
There from his charger down he slid, and sat. 
Gasping to Sir Lavaine, " Draw the lance-head : " 
"Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot, said Lavaine, 
" I dread me, if I draw it, you will die." 
But he, " 1 die already with it : draw — 
Draw," — and Lavaine drew, and that other gave 



ELAINE. 527 

A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan, 
And half his blood burst forth, and down he sank 
For the piu-e pain, and wholly swoon'd away. 
Then came the hermit out and bare him in, 
There stanch'd his Avound ; and there, in dally doubt 
Whether to live or die, for many a week 
Hid fi'om the wide w^orld's rumor by tlie grove 
Of poplars with their noise of falling showers, 
And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay. 

But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists, 
His party, knights of utmost North and West, 
Lords of waste marches, kings of desolate isles. 
Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him, 
" Lo, Sire, our knight thro' whom we won the day 
Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prize 
Untaken, crying that his prize is deaths 
" Heaven hinder," said the King, " that such an one. 
So great a knight as we have seen to-day — 
He seem'd to me another Lancelot — 
Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelot — 
He must not pass uncared for. Gawain, rise. 
My nephew, and ride forth and find the knight. 
Wounded and wearied needs must he be near. 
I charge you that you get at once to horse. 
And, knights and kings, there breathes not one of you 
Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given : 
His prowess was too wondrous. We will do him 
No customary honor : since the knight 
Came not to us, of us to claim the prize. 
Ourselves will send it after. Wherefore take 
This diamond, and deliver it, and return, 
And bring us what he is and how he fares. 
And cease not from your quest until you find." 

So saying, from the carven floor above. 
To which It made a restless heart, he took. 
And gave, the diamond : then from where he sat 
At Arthur's right, with smiling face arose. 
With smiling face and frowning heart, a Prince 
In the mid might and flourish of his May, 
Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair and strong, 
And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Geraint, 
And Lamorack, a good knight, but therewithal 
Sir Modred's brother, of a crafty house. 



528 ELAINE. 

Nor often loyal to his word, and now- 
Wroth that the king's command to sally forth 
In quest of whom he knew not, made him leave 
The banquet, and concourse of knights and kings. 

So all in wrath he got to horse and went ; 
While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood, 
Past, thinking, " Is it Lancelot who lias come 
Despite the wound he spake 'of, all for gain 
Of glory, and has added wound to wound, 
And ridd'n away to die ? " So fear'd the King, 
And, after two days' tarriance there, return'd. 
Then when he saw the Queen, embracing, ask'd, 
" Love, are you yet so sick ? " " Nay, Lord," she said. 
"And where is Lancelot ? " Then the Queen amazed, 
" Was he not with you ? won he not your prize ? " 
"Nay, but one like him." " Why, that like was he." 
And when the King demanded how she knew, 
Said, " Lord, no sooner had you parted from us, 
Than Lancelot told me of a common talk 
That men went down before his spear at a touch, 
But knowing he was Lancelot ; his great name 
Conquer'd ; and therefore would he hide his name 
From all men, ev'n the king, and to this end 
Had made the pretext of a hindering wound. 
That he might joust unknown of all, and learn 
If his old prowess were in aught decay'd : 
And added, ' Our true Arthur, when he learns, 
Will well allow my pretext, as for gain 
Of purer glory.' " 

Then replied the King : 
" Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been, 
In lieu of idly dallying with the truth, 
To have trusted me as he has trusted you. 
Surely his king and most familiar friend 
Might well have kept his secret. True, indeed. 
Albeit I know my knights fantastical, 
So fine a fear in our large Lancelot 
Must needs have moved my laughter : now remains 
But little cause for laughter : his own kin — 
HI news, my Queen, for all who love him, these ! 
His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him ; 
So that he went sore wounded from the field : 
Yet good news too : for goodly hopes are mine 
That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart. 



ELAINE. 529 

lie wore, against his wont, upon liis helm 

A sleeve of scarlet, broidered with great pearls, 

Some o-entle maiden's gift." 

" Yea, lord," she said, 
" Your hopes are mine," and s.iving that she choked. 
And sharply turn'd about to hide her face. 
Moved to her chamber, and there flung herself 
Down on the gTcat King's couch, and writhed upon it, 
And clench'd her fingers till they bit the palm, 
And shriek'd out " traitor " to the unhearing wall. 
Then flash'd into wild tears, and rose again. 
And moved about her palace, proud and pcile. 

Gawain the while thro' all the region round 
Rode Avith his diamond, wearied of the quest, 
Touch'd at all points, except the poplar-grove. 
And came at last, tho' late, to Astolat : 
Whom glittering in enamell'd arms the maid 
Glanced at, and cried, "What news from Camelot, lord? 
What of the knight with the red sleeve ? " " He won." 
" I knew it," she said. " But parted from the j (busts 
Hurt in the side," whereat she caught her breath ; 
Thro' her own side she felt the sharp lance go ; 
Thereon she smote her hand : wellnigh she swoon'd : 
And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, came 
The lord of Astolat out, to whom the Prince 
Reported who he was, and on what quest 
Sent, that he bore the prize and could not find 
The victor, but had ridden wildly round 
To seek him, and was wearied of the search. 
To whom the lord of Astolat, " Bide with us, 
And ride no longer wildly, noble Prince ! 
Here was the knight, and here he left a shield ; 
This will he send or come for : furthermore 
Our son is with him ; we shall hear anon, 
Needs must we hear."/ To this the courteous Prince 
Accorded with his wonted courtesy, 
Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it, 
And stayVl ; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine : 
Where could be found face daintier ? then her shape 
From forehead down to foot perfect — again 
From foot to forehead exquisitely turn'd : 
" Well — if I bide, lo ! this wild-flower for me ! " 
And oft they met among the garden-yews. 
And there he set himself to play upon her 
34 



530 ELAINE. 

With sallying wit, free flashes from a height 

Above her, graces of the court, and songs. 

Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden eloquence 

And amorous adulation, till the maid 

Rebell'd against it, saying to him, " Prince, 

O loyal nephew of our noble King, 

Wliy ask you not to see the shield he left, 

Whence you might learn liis name ? AVhy slight your King, 

And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove 

No surer than our falcon yesterday. 

Who lost the hern we slipt him at, and went 

To all the winds ? " " Nay, by mine head," said he, 

" I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, 

damsel, in the light of your blue eyes : • 
But^an you will it let, me see the shield." -- 

And when the shield was brought, and Gawain saw 
Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crown'd with gold. 
Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, and mock'd ; 
" Right was the King ! our Lancelot ! that true man ! " 
" And right was I," she answer'd merrily, '' I, 
Who dream'd my knight the greatest knight of all." 
"And if / dream'd," said Gawain, " that you love 
This greatest knight, your pardon ! lo, you know it ! 
Speak therefore : shall I waste myself in vain ? " 
Full simple was her answer, " What know I ? 
My brethren have been all my fellowship. 
And I, when often they have talk'd of love, 
Wish'd it had been my mother, for they talk'd, 
Meseem'd, of what they knew not ; so myself — 

1 know not if I know what true love is, 
But if I know, then, if I love not him, 
Methinks there is none other I can love." 

/f-'- Yea, by God's death," said he, " you love him well, 
But would not, knew you what all others know, 
And whom he loves.'] " So be it," cried Elaine, 
And lifted her fair face and moved away : 
But he pursued her calling, " Stay a little ! 
One golden minute's grace : he wore your sleeve : 
Would he break faith with one I may not name ? 
Must our true man change like a leaf at last ? 
May it be so ? why then, far be it from me 
To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves ! 
And, damsel, for I deem you know full well 
Where your great knight is hidden, let me leave 
My quest with you ; the diamond also : here ! 



ELAINE. 53] 

For If you love, it will be sweet to give It ; 

And if h& love, it will be sweet to have it 

From your own hand ; and whether he love or not, 

A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well 

A thousand times ! — a thousand times farewell ! 

Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two 

May meet at court hereafter : there, I think, 

So you will learn the courtesies of the court, 

We two shall know each other." 

Then he gave, 
And slightly kiss'd the hand to which he gave, 
The diamond, and all wearied of the quest 
Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he went 
A true-lo^'e ballad, lightly rode away. 

Thence to the court he past ; there told the King 
What the Kino- knew, " Sir Lancelot Is the knight." 
And added, " Sire, my liege, so much I learnt ; 
But fail'd to find him, tho' I rode all round 
The region : but I lighted on the maid. 
Whose sleeve he wore ; she loves liim ; and to her, 
Deeming our courtesy is the truest law, 
I gave the diamond : she avIII render it ; 
For by mine head she knows his hiding-place." 

The seldom-frowning King frown'd, and replied, 
" Too courteous truly ! you shall go no more 
On quest of mine, seeing that you forget 
Obedience is the courtesy due to kings." 

He spake and parted. Wroth but all in awe, 
For twenty strokes of the blood, without a word, 
Linger'd that other, staring after him ; 
Then shook his hair, strode off, and buzz'd abroad 
About the maid of Astolat, and her love. 
All eai-s were prick'd at once, all tongues were loosed 
" The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lancelot, 
Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat," 
Some read the King's face, some the Queen's, and all 
Had marvel what the maid might be, but most 
Predooni'd her as unworthy. One old dame 
Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp news. 
She, that had heard the noise of it before. 
But sorrowing Lancelot should have stoop'd so low, 
Marr'd her friend's point with pale tranquillity. 



532 ELAINE. 

So ran the tale like fire about the court, 
Fire in dry stubble a nine-days' wonder flared : 
Till ev'n the knights at banquet twice or thrice 
Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen, 
And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid 
Smiled at each other, while the Queen who sat 
With lips severely placid felt the knot 
Climb in her throat, and with her feet unseen 
Crush'd the wild passion out against the floor 
Beneath the banquet, where the meats became 
As wormwood, and she hated all who pledged. 

But far away the maid in Astolat, 
Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept 
The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart, 
Crept to her father, while he mused alone. 
Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face and said, 
" Father, you call me wilful, and the fault 
Is yours who let me have my will, and now, 
Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits ? " 
" Nay," said he, " surely." " Wherefore let me hence,'' 
She answer'd, " and find out our dear Lavaine." 
" You will not lose your wits for dear Lavaine : 
Bide," answer'd he : " we needs must hear anon 
Of him, and of that other." "Ay," she said, 
"And of that other, for I needs must hence 
And find that other, wheresoe'er he be. 
And with mine own hand give his diamond to him. 
Lest I be found as faithless in the quest 
As yon proud Prince who left the quest to me. 
Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself. 
Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's aid. 
The gentler-born the maiden, the more bound. 
My father, to be sweet and serviceable 
To noble knights in sickness, as you know. 
When these have worn their tokens : let me hence 
I pray you." Then her father nodding said, 
" Ay, ay, the diamond : wit you well, my child. 
Right fain were I to learn this knight were whole, 
Being our greatest : yea, and you must give it — 
And sure I think this fruit is hung too high 
For any mouth to gape for save a Queen's — 
Nay, I mean nothing : so then, get you gone. 
Being so very wilful you must go." 



ELAINE. 533 

Lightly, her suit allow'd, she slipt away, 
And while she made her ready for her ride, 
Her father's latest word hiimin'd in her ear, 
" Being so very wilful you must go," 
And changed itself and echoed in her heart, 
" Being so very wilful you must die." 
But she was happy enough and shook it off, 
As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us ; 
And in her heart she answer'd it and said, 
'• What matter, so I help him back to life ? " 
Then far aAvay with good Sir Torre for guide 
Rode o'er the long backs of the bushless downs 
To Camelot, and before the city-gates 
Came on her brother with a happy face 
Making a roan horse caj^er and curvet 
For pleasure all about a field of flowers : 
Whom Avhen she saAv, " Lavaine," she cried, " Lavaine, 
How fares my lord Sir Lancelot ? " He amazed, 
" ToiTe and Elaine ! why here ? Sir Lancelot ! 
How know you my lord's name is Lancelot ? " 
But when the maid had told him all her tale, 
Then turn'd Sir ToiTe, and being in his moods 
Left them, and under the strange-statued gate. 
Where Arthur's wars Avere render'd mystically, 
Past up the still rich city to his kin, 
His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot ; 
And her Lavaine across the poplar-grove 
Led to the caves: there first she saw the casque 
Of Lancelot on the wall : her scarlet sleeve, 
Tho' carved and cut, and half the pearls away, 
Stream'd from it still ; and in her heart she laugh'd. 
Because he had not loosed it fi-om his helm, 
But meant once more perchance to tourney in it. 
And when they gain'd the cell in Avhich he slept. 
His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands 
Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream 
Of dragging down his enemy made them move. / 
Then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn, 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of hunself, 
Uttered a little tender dolorous cry. 
The sound not wonted in a place so still 
Woke the sick knight, and while he roU'd his eyes 
Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying, 
" Your prize, the diamond sent you by the King : " 
His eyes glisten'd : she fancied, " Is it for me ? " 



53i ELAINE. 

And when the maid had told him all the tale 

Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, the quest 

Assign'd to her not worthy of it, she knelt 

Full lowly by the corners of his bed, 

And laid the diamond in his open hand. 

Her face was near, and as we kiss the child 

That does the task assign'd, he kiss'd her face. 

At once she slipt like water to the floor. 

"Alas," he said, " your ride has wearied you. 

Rest must you have." " No rest for me," she said ; 

" Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest." 

What might she mean by that ? his large black eyes, 

Yet larger thro' his leanness, dwelt upon her, 

Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself 

In the heart's colors on her simple face ; 

And Lancelot look'd and was perplext in mind, 

And being weak in body said no more ; 

But did not love the color ; woman's love, 

Save one, he not regarded, and so turn'd 

Sighing, and feigned a sleep until he slept. 

Then rose Elaine and glided thro' the fields, 
And past beneath the wildly sculptured gates 
Far up the dim rich city to her kin ; 
There bode the night : but woke with dawn, and past 
Down thro' the dim rich city to the fields, 
Thence to the cave : so day by day she past 
In either twilight ghostlike to and fro 
Gliding, and every day she tended him, 
And likewise many a night : and Lancelot 
Would, tho' he call'd his wound a little hurt 
Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times 
Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem 
Uncourteous, even he : but the meek maid 
Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him 
Meeker than any child to a rough nurse, 
Milder than any mother to a sick child. 
And never woman yet, since man's first fall, 
Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love 
Upbore her ; till the hermit, skill'd in all 
The simples and the science of that time. 
Told him that her fine care had saved his life. 
And the sick man forgot her simple blush. 
Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine, 
Would listen for her coming and regret 



ELAINE. 535 

Her parting step, and held her tenderly, 

And loved her with cill love except the love 

Of man and woman when they love their best 

Closest and sweetest, and had died the death 

In any knightly fashion for her sake. 

And peradventure had he seen her first 

She uiJght have made this and that other world 

Another Avorld for the sick man ; but now 

The shackles of an old love straiten'd him, 

His honor rooted in dishonor stood. 

And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. 

Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness made 
Full many a holy vow and pure resolve. 
These, as but born of sickness, could not live : 
For when the blood ran lustier in him again. 
Fall often the sweet image of one face, 
Making a treacherous quiet in his heart, 
Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. 
Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace 
Beam'd on his fancy, spoke, he answer'd not, 
Or short, and coldly, and she knew right well 
What the rough sickness meant, but what this meant 
She knew not, and the sorrow dimm'd her sight. 
And drave her ere her time across the fields 
Far into the rich city, where alone 
She murmur'd, " Yain, in vain : it cannot be. 
He will not love me : how then ? must I die." 
Then as a little helpless, innocent bird, 
That has but one plain passage of few notes. 
Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er 
For all an April morning, till the ear 
Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid 
Went half the night repeating, " Must I die ? " 
And now to right she turn'd, and now to lefl, 
And found no ease in turning or in rest ; 
And " Him or death," she mutter'd, " death or him," 
Again and like a burden, " Him or death," 

But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whole, 
To Astolat returning rode the three. 
There morn by morn, arraying her sweet self 
In that wherein she deem'd she look'd her best, 
She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought, 
" If I be loved, these are my festal robes. 



536 



If not, the victim's flowers before he fall." 

And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid j^ 

That she should ask some goodly gift of him 

For her own self or hers. " And do not shun 

To speak the wish most near to your true heart ; 

Such service have you done me, that I make 

My will of yours, and Prince and Lord am I 

In mine own land, and what I will I can." 

Then like a ghost she lifted up her face, 

But like a ghost without the power to speak. 

And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish. 

And bode among them yet a little space 

Till he should learn it ; and one morn it chanced 

He found her in among the garden-yews. 

And said, " Delay no longer, speak your wish, 

Seeing I must go to-day : " then out she brake ; 

" Going ? and we shall never see you more. 

And I must die for want of one bold word." 

" Speak : that I live to hear," he said, " is yours." 

Then suddenly and passionately she spoke : 

" I have gone mad. I love you : let me die." 

^'Ah sister," answer'd Lancelot, " what is this ? " 

And innocently extending her white arms, 

" Your love," she said, " your love — to be your wife. 

And Lancelot answer'd, " Had I chos'n to wed, 

I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine : 

But now there never will be wife of mine." 

" No, no," she cried, " I care not to be wife, 

But to be with you still, to see your face. 

To serve you, and to follow you thro' the world." 

And Lancelot answer'd, " Nay, the M^orld, the world, 

All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart 

To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue. 

To blare Its own Interpretation — nay. 

Full ill then should I quit your brother's love, 

And your good father's kindness." And she said, 

" Not to be Avith you, not to see your face — 

Alas for me then, my good days are done." 

" Nay, noble maid," he answer'd, " ten times nay ! 

This is not love : but love's first flash in youth. 

Most common : yea I know it of mine own self: 

And you yourself will smile at your own self 

Llereafter, when you yield your flower of life 

To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age : 

And then will I, for true you are and sweet 



537 



Beyond mine old belief in womanhood, 
More specially should your good knight be poor, 
Endow you with broad land and territory 
Even to the half my realm bej'ond the seas. 
So that would make you happy : furthermore, 
Ev'n to the death, as tho' you were my blood. 
In all your quarrels will I be your knight. 
This will I do, dear damsel, for your sake. 
And more than this I cannot." 
,__^ While he spoke 

She neither blush'd nor shook, but deathly pale 
Stood grasping what was nearest, then replied ; 
" Of all this will I nothing ; " and so fell. 
And thus they bore her swooning to her tower. 

Then spake, to whom thro' those black walls of yew 
Their talk had pierced, her father. "Ay, a flash, 
I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead. 
Too courteous are you, fair Lord Lancelot. 
I pray you, use some rough discourtesy 
To blunt or break her passion." 

Lancelot said, 
" That were against me : what I can I will ; " 
And there that day remain'd, and toward even 
Sent for his shield : full meekly rose the maid, 
Stript off the case, and gave the naked shield ; 
Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones, 
Unclasping flung the casement back, and look'd 
DoAvn on his helm, from which her sleeve had gone. 
And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound ; 
And she by tact of love was well aware 
That Lancelot knew that she was looking at him. 
And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand. 
Nor bade farewell, but sadly rode away. 
This was the one discourtesy that he used. 

So in her tower alone the maiden sat : 
His very shield was gone ; only tiie case, 
Her own poor work, her empty labor, left. 
But still she heard him, still his picture fbrm'd 
And grew between her and the pictured wall. 
Then came her father, saying in low tones, 
" Have comfort," whom she greeted quietly. 
Then came her brethren saying, " Peace to thee, 
Sweet sister," whom she answer'd Avith all calm. 



538 ELAINE. 

But when they left her to hei-self again, 
Death, like a friend's voice from a distant field, 
Approaching thro' the darkness, call'd ; the owls 
Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt 
Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms 
Of evening, and the moanings of the wind. 

And in those days she made a little song. 
And call'd her song, " The Song of Love and Death," 
And sang it : sweetly could she make and sing. 

" Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in vain ; 
And sweet is death who puts an end to pain : 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

" Love, art thou sweet ? then bitter death must be : 
Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death to me. 

Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. 

" Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away, 
Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay, 

1 know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

" I fain would follow love, if that could be ; 
I needs must follow death, who calls for me ; 
Call and I follow, I follow ! let me die." 

High with the last line scaled her voice, and this, 
All in a fiery dawning wild with wind 
That shook her tower, the brothers heard, and thought 
With shuddering, " Hark the Phantom of the house 
That ever shrieks before a death," and call'd 
The father, and all three in hurry and fear 
Ran to her, and lo ! the blood-red light of dawn 
Flared on her face, she shrilling, " Let me die ! " 

As when we dwell upon a word we know 
Repeating, till the word we know so well 
Becomes a wonder and we know not why. 
So dwelt the father on her face and thought, 
" Is this Elaine ? " till back the maiden fell, 
Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay, 
Speaking a still good-morrow with her eyes. 
At last she said, " Sweet brothers, yesternight 
I seem'd a curious little maid again, 



ELAINE. 539 

As happy as when we dwelt among the woods, 
And when you used to take me with the flood 
Up the great river in the boatman's boat. 
Only you w^ould not pass beyond the cape 
That has the poplar on it : there you fixt 
Your limit, oft returning with the tide. 
And yet I cried because you would not pass 
Beyond it, and far up the shining flood 
Until we found the palace of the king. 
And yet you w^ould not ; but this night I dream'd 
That I was all alone upon the flood, 
And then I said, ' Now shall I have my will : ' 
And there I woke, but still the wish remain'd. 
So let me hence that I may pass at last 
Beyond the poplar and far up the flood. 
Until I find the palace of the king. 
There will I enter in among them all, 
And no man there will dare to mock at me ; 
But there the fine Gawain will wonder at me. 
And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me ; 
Gawain, who bade a thousand farewells to me, 
Lancelot, who coldly w^ent nor bade me one : 
And there the King will know me and my love. 
And there the Queen herself will pity me. 
And all the gentle court will welcome me. 
And after my long voyage I shall rest ! " 

" Peace," said her father, " O my child, you seem 
Light-headed, for what force is yours to go. 
So far, being sick ? and wherefore would you look 
On this proud fellow again, who scorns us all ? " 

Then the rough Torre began to heave and move. 
And bluster into stormy sobs and say, 
" I never loved him : an I meet wdth him, 
I care not howsoever great he be, 
Then will I strike at him and strike him down. 
Give me good fortune, I will strike him dead, 
For this discomfort he hath done the house." 

To which the gentle sister made reply, 
" Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be wroth. 
Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault 
Not to love me, than it is mine to love 
Ilim of all men who seems to me the highest." 



540 ELAINE. 

" Highest ? " the Father answer'd, echoing " highest ? ' 
(He meant to break the passion ,in her) " nay, 
Daughter, I know not what you call the highest ; 
But this I know, for all the people know it, 
He loves the Queen, and in an open shame : 
And she returns his love in open shame. 
If this be high, what is it to be low ? " 

Then spake the lily maid of Astolat ; 
" Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I 
For anger : these are slanders : never yet 
Was noble man but made ignoble talk. 
He makes no friend who never made a foe. 
But now it is my glory to have loved 
One peerless, without stain : so let me pass, 
My father, hoWsoe'er I seem to you, 
Not all unhappy, having loved God's best 
And greatest, tho' my love had no return : 
Yet, seeing you desire your child to live, 
Thanks, but you work against your own desire ; 
For if I could believe the things you say 
I should but die the sooner ; wherefore cease, 
Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man 
Hither, and let me shrive me clean, and die." 

So when the ghostly man had come and gone, 
She with a face, bright as for sin forgiven, 
Besought Lavaine to write as she devised 
A letter, word for word ; and when he ask'd, 
" Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord ? 
Then will I bear it gladly ; " she replied, 
" For Lancelot and the Queen and all the world. 
But I myself must bear it." Then he wrote 
The letter she devised ; which being writ 
And folded, " O sweet father, tender and true, 
Deny me not," she said — " you never yet 
Denied my fancies — this, however strange. 
My latest : lay the letter in my hand 
A little ere I die, and close the hand 
Upon it ; I shall guard it even in death. 
And when the heat is gone from out my heart, 
Then take the little bed on which I died 
For Lancelot's love, and deck it hke the Queen's 
For richness, and me also like the Queen 
In all I have of rich, and lay me on it. 



ELAINE. 541 

And let there be prepared a chariot-bler 
To take me to the river, and a barge 
Be ready on the river, clothed in black. 
I go in state to court, to meet the Queen. 
There surely I shall speak for mine own self, 
And none of you can speak for me so well. 
And therefore let our dumb old man alone 
Go with me, he can steer and row, and he 
Will guide me to that palace, to the doors." 

She ceased : her father promised ; whereupon 
She grew so cheerful that they deem'd her death 
Was rather in the fantasy than the blood. 
But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh 
Her father laid the letter in her hand, 
And closed the hand upon it, and she died. 
So that day there was dole in Astolat. 

But when the next sun brake from underground, 
Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows 
Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier 
Past like a shadow thro' the field, that shone 
Full-summer, to that stream whereon the barge, 
Pall'd all its length in blackest samite, lay. 
There sat the lifelong creature of the house. 
Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck, 
Winking his eyes, and twisted all his fice. 
So those two brethren from the chariot took 
And on the black decks laid her in her bed, 
Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung 
The silken case with braided blazonlngs. 
And kiss'd her quiet brows, and saying to her, 
" Sister, farewell forever," and again, 
" Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in tears. 
Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead 
Steer'd by the dumb went upward with the flood — 
In her right hand the lily, in her left 
The letter — all her brioht hair streaming down — 
And all the coverlid was cloth of gold 
Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white 
All but her face, and that clear-featured face 
Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead, 
But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled. 

That day Sir Lancelot at the palace craved 



512 



Audience of Guinevere, to give at last 

The price of half a realm, his costly gift, 

Hard-won and hardly won with bruise and blow, 

With deaths of others, and almost his own, 

The nine-years-fought-for diamonds : for he saw 

One of her house, and sent him to the Queen 

Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen agreed 

With such and so unmoved a majesty 

She might have seem'd her statue, but that he, 

Low-drooping till he wellnigh kiss'd her feet 

For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye 

The shadow of a piece of pointed lace. 

In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the walls, 

And parted, laughing in his courtly heart. 

All in an oriel on the summer side. 
Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward the stream, 
They met, and Lancelot kneeling, utter'd, " Queen, 
Lady, my liege, in whom I have my joy. 
Take, what I had not won except for you. 
These jcAvels, and make me happy, making them 
An armlet for the roundest arm on earth. 
Or necklace for a neck to which the swan's 
Is tawnier than her cygnet's : these are words : 
Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin 
In speaking, yet O grant my worship of it 
Words, as we grant grief tears. Such sin in words 
Perchance, we both can pardon : but, my Queen, 
I hear of rumors flying thro' your court. 
Our bond, as not the bond of man and wife. 
Should have in it an absoluter trust 
To make up that defect : let rumors be : 
When did not rumors fly ? these, as I trust 
That you trust me in your own nobleness, 
I may not well believe that you believe." 

While thus he spoke, half turn'd away, the Queen 
Brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine 
Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them off, 
Till all the place whereon she stood was green ; 
Then, when he ceased, in one cold passive hand 
Received at once and laid aside the gems 
There on a table near her, and replied. 

" It may be, I am quicker of belief 



ELAINE. 543 

Than you believe me, Lancelot of the Lake. 

Our bond is not the bond of man and wife. 

This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill, 

It can be broken easier. I for you 

This many a year have done despite and wrong 

To one whom ever in my heart of hearts 

I did acknowledge nobler. What are these ? 

Diamonds for me ! they had been thrice their worth 

Being your gift, had you not lost your own. 

To loyal hearts the value of all gifts 

Must vary as the giver's. Not for me h— 

For her ! for your new fancy. Only this 

Grant me, I pray you : have your joys apart. 

I doubt not that however changed, you keep 

So much of what is graceful : and myself 

Would shun to break those bounds of courtesy 

In which as Arthur's queen I move and rule : 

So cannot speak my mind. An end to this ! 

A strange one ! yet I take it with Amen. 

So pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls ; 

Deck her with these ; tell her, she shines me down : 

An armlet for an arm to which the Queen's 

Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck 

O as much fairer — as a faith once fair 

Was richer than these diamonds — hers not mine — 

Nay, by the mother of our Lord himself. 

Or hers or mine, mine now to work my will — 

She shall not have them." 

Saying which she seized, 
And, thro' the casement standing wide for heat. 
Flung them, and down they flash'd, and smote the stream. 
Then from the smitten surface flash'd, as it were. 
Diamonds to meet them, and they past away. 
Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half disgust 
At love, life, all things, on the window-ledge. 
Close underneath his eyes, and right across 
Where these had fallen, slowly past the barge 
Whereon the lily maid of Astolat 
Lay smiling, like a stai' in blackest night. 

But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst away 
To weep and wail in secret ; and the barge. 
On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused. 
There two stood arm'd, and kept the door ; to whom, 
All up the marble stair, tier over tier. 



544 



Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes that ask'd 
" What is it ? " but that oarsman's haggard face, 
As hard and still as is the face that men 
Shape to their fancy's eye from broken rocks 
On some cliff-side, appall'd them, and they said, 
" He is enchanted, cannot speak — and she, 
Look how she sleeps — the Fairy Queen, so fair ! 
Yea, but how pale ! what are they ? flesh and blood ? 
Or some to take the King to fairy land ? 
For some do hold our Arthur cannot die. 
But that he passes into fairy land." 

While thus they babbled of the King, the King 
Came girt with knights : then turn'd the tongueless man 
From the half-face to the full eye, and rose 
And pointed to the damsel, and the doors. 
So Arthur bade the meek Sir Percivale 
And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid ; 
And reverently they bore her into hall. 
Then came the fine Gaw^ain and wonder'd at her, 
And Lancelot later came and mused at her, 
And last the Queen herself and pitied her : 
But Arthur spied the letter in her hand, 
Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it ; this was all. 

" Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of the Lake, 
I, sometime call'd the maid of Astolat, 
Come, for you left me taking no farewell. 
Hither, to take my last farewell of you. 
I loved you, and my love had no return. 
And therefore my true love has been my death. 
And therefore to our lady Guinevere, 
And to all other ladies, I make moan. 
Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. 
Pray for my soul thou too. Sir Lancelot, 
As thou art a knight peerless." 

Thus he read, 
And ever in the reading, lords and dames 
Wept, looking often from his face who read 
To hers which lay so silent, and at times. 
So touch'd were they, half-thinking that her lips, 
Who had devised the letter, moved again. 

Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them all ; 
" My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that hear, 



ELAINE. 545 

Know that for this most gentle maiden's death 
Right heavy am I ; for good she Avas and true, 
But loved me with a love beyond all love 
In women, whomsoever I have known. 
Yet to be loved makes not to love again ; 
Not at my years, however it hold in youth. 
I swear by truth and knighthood that I gave 
No cause, not willingly, for such a love : 
To this I call my friends in testimony, 
Her brethren, and her fiither, who himself 
Besought me to be plain and blunt, and use, 
To break her passion, some discourtesy 
Against my nature : what I could, I did. 
I left her and I bade her no farewell. 
Tho', had I dreamt the damsel would have died, 
I might have put my wits to some rough use, 
And help'd her from herself" 

Then said the Queen 
(Sea was her wrath, yet working after storm), 
" You might at least have done her so much grace, 
Fair lord, as would have help'd her from her death." 
He raised his head, their eyes met and hers fell, 
He adding, 

" Queen, she would not be content 
Save that I wedded her, which could not be. 
Then might she follow me thro' the world, she ask'd; 
It could not be. I told her that her love 
Was but the flash of youth, would darken down 
To rise hereafter in a stiller flame 
Toward one more worthy of her — then would I, 
More specially were he she wedded poor. 
Estate them with large land and territory 
In mine own realm beyond the narrow seas. 
To keep them in all joyance : more than this 
I could not ; this she would not, and she died." 

He pausing, Arthur answer'd, " O my knight, 
It will be to your worship, as my knight. 
And mine, as head of all our Tal)le Round, 
To see that she be buried worshipfully." 

So toward that shrine which then in all the realm 
Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly went 
The marshall'd order of their Table Round, 
And Lancelot sad bevond his wont, to see 
35 



546 



The maiden buried, not as one unknown, 

Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies. 

And mass, and rolling music, like a Queen. 

And when the knights had laid her comely head 

Low in the dust of half-forgotten kings. 

Then Arthur spake among them, " Let her tomb 

Be costly, and her image thereupon. 

And let the shield of Lancelot at her feet 

Be carven, and her lily in her hand. 

And let the story of her dolorous voyage 

For all true hearts be blazon'd on her tomb 

In letters gold and azure ! '' which was wrought 

Thereafter ; but when now the lords and dames 

And people, from the high door streaming, brake 

Disorderly, as homeward each, the Queen, 

Who mark'd Sir Lancelot where he moved apart, 

Drew near, and sigh'd in passing, " Lancelot, 

Forgive me ; mine was jealousy in love." 

He answer'd with his eyes upon the ground, 

" That is love's curse ; pass on, my Queen, forgiven." 

But Arthur who beheld his cloudy brows 

Approach'd him, and with full affection flung 

One arm about his neck, and spake and said : 

" Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom I have 
Most love and most affiance, for I know 
What thou hast been in battle by my side. 
And many a time have watch'd thee at the tilt 
Strike down the lusty and long-practised knight, 
And let the younger and unskill'd go by 
To win his honor and to make his name, 
And loved thy courtesies and thee, a man 
Made to be loved ; but now I would to God, 
For the wild people say wild things of thee. 
Thou could'st have loved this maiden, shaped, it seems, 
By God for thee alone, and from her face, 
If one may judge the li^4ng by the dead. 
Delicately pure and marvellously fair. 
Who might have brought thee, now a lonely man, 
Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons 
Born to the glory of thy name and fame. 
My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the Lake." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, " i air she was, my King, 
Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. 



547 



To doubt her fairness were to want an eye, 
To doubt her pureness were to want a heart — 
Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love 
Could bind him, but free love will not be bound." 

" Free love, so bound, were freest," said the King, 
" Let love be free ; fi*ee love is for the best : 
And, after heaven, on our dull side of death, 
What should be best, if not so pure a love 
Clothed in so pure a loveliness ? yet thee 
She fail'd to bind, tho' being, as I think. 
Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I know." 

And Lancelot answer'd nothing, but he went, 
And at the inrunning of a little brook 
Sat by the river in a cove, and watch'd 
The high reed wave, and lifted up his eyes 
And saw the barge that brought her moving doAvn, 
Far off, a blot upon the stream, and said 
Low in himself, ''Ah simple heart and sweet, 
You loved me, damsel, surely with a love 
Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray for thy soul ? 
Ay, that will I. Farewell too — now at last — 
Farewell, fair lily. ' Jealousy in love ? ' 
Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous pride ? 
Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of love, 
May not your crescent fear for name and fame. 
Speak, as it waxes, of a love that Avanes ? 
Why did the King dwell on my name to me ? 
Mine own name shames me, seeming a reproach, 
Lancelot, whom the Lady of the Lake 
Stole from his mother — as the story runs — ■ 
She chanted snatches of mysterious song 
Heard on the winding waters, eve and morn 
She kiss'd me, saying, Thou art fair, my child. 
As a king's son, and often in her arms 
She bare me, pacing on the dusky mere. 
Would she had drown'd me in it, where'er it be ! 
For what am I '? what profits me my name 
Of greatest knight ? I fouglit for it, and have it : 
Pleasure to have it, none ; to lose it, pain ; 
Now grown a part of me : but what use in it ? 
To make men worse by making my sin known ? 
Or sin seem less, the sirmcr seeming great ? 
Alas for Arthur's ijreatest kniirht, a man 



548 



Not after Arthur's heart ! I needs must break 
These bonds that so defame me : not without 
She wills it : would I, if she will'd it ? nay, 
Who knows ? but if I would not, then may God, 
I pray him, send a sudden Angel down 
To seize me by the hair and bear me far. 
And fling me deep in that forgotten mere, 
Among the tumbled fragments of the hills." 

So groan'd Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain, 
Not knowing he should die a holy man. 




t 



GUINEVERE. 

Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat 
There in the holy house at Almesbury 
Weeping, none with her save a little maid, 
A novice : one low light betAvixt them burn'd, 
Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all abroad. 
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full. 
The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face, 
Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still. 



For hither had she fled, her cause of flight 
Sir Modred; he the nearest to the King, 
His nephew, ever like a subtle beast 
Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne, 
Ready to spring, waiting a chance : for this, 
He chill'd the popular praises of the King 
With silent smiles of slow disparagement ; 
And tamper'd with the Lords of the White Horse, 
Heathen, the brood by Hengist left ; and sought 
To make disruption in the Table Round 
Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds 
Serving his traitorous end ; and all his aims 
Were sharpen'd by strong hate for Lancelot. 



For thus it chanced one morn when aW the court, 
(ireen-suited, but with plumes that mock'd the may, 
Had been, their wont, a-maying and return'd. 
That Modred still in green, all ear and eye, 
Climb'd to the high top of the garden-wall 



550 GUINEVERE. 

To spy some secret scandal If be might, 

And saw the Queen who sat betwixt her best 

Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court 

The wiliest and the worst ; and more than this 

He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by 

Spied where he couch'd, and as the gardener's hand 

Picks from the colewort a green caterpillar, 

So from the high wall and the flowering grove 

Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by the heel, 

And cast him as a worm upon the way ; 

But when he knew the Prince tho' marr'd with dust, 

He, reverencing king's blood in a bad man^ 

Made such excuses as he might, and these 

Full knightly without scorn ; for in those days 

No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in scorn ; 

But, if a man were halt or hunch'd, in him 

By those whom God had made full-limb'd and tall, 

Scorn was allow'd as part of his defect, 

And he was answer'd softly by the King 

And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp 

To raise the Prince, who rising twice or thrice 

Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, and went : 

But, ever after, the small violence done 

Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart, 

As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long 

A little bitter pool about a stone 

On the bare coast. 

But when Sir Lancelot told 
This matter to the Queen, at first she laugh'd 
Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall. 
Then shudder'd, as the village wife who cries, 
" I shudder, some one steps across my grave ; " 
Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for indeed 
She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast, 
Would track her guilt until he found, and hers 
Would be for evermore a name of scorn. 
Henceforward rarely could she front in Hall, 
Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy face, 
Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye : 
Henceforward too, the Powers that tend the soul. 
To help it from the death that cannot die. 
And save it even in extremes, began 
To vex and plague her. Many a time for hours, 
Beside the placid breathings of the King, 
In the dead night, grim faces came and went 
Before her, or a vague spiritual fear — 



GUINEVERE. 



551 



Like to some doubtful uoise of creaking doors, 

Heard by the watcher in a haunted house, 

That keeps the rust of murder on the walls — 

Held her awake : or if she slept, she dream'd 

An awful dream ; for then she seem'd to stand 

On some vast plain before a setting sun. 

And from the sun there swiftly made at her 

A ghastly something, and its shadow flew 

Before it, till it touch'd her, and she turn'd — 

When lo ! her own, that broadening from her feet, 

And blackening, swallow'd all the land, and in it 

Far cities burnt, and with a cry she woke. 

And all this trouble did not pass but grew ; 

Till ev'n the clear face of the guileless King, 

And trustful courtesies of household life. 

Became her bane; and at the last she said, 

" O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own land, 

For if thou tarry we shall meet again. 

And if we meet again, some evil chance 

Will make the smouldering scandal break and blaze 

Before the people, and our lord the King." 

And Lancelot ever promised, but remain'd, 

And still they met and met. Again she said, 

" O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee hence." 

And then they were agreed upon a night 

(When the good King should not be there) to meet 

And part forever. Passion-pale they met 

And greeted : hands in hands, and eye to eye, 

Low on the border of her couch they sat 

Stammering and staring : it was their last hour, 

A madness of farewells. And Modred brought 

His creatures to the basement of the tower 

For testimony ; and crying with full voice, 

" Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last," aroused 

Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike 

Leapt on him, and hurl'd him headlong, and he fell 

Stunn'd, and his creatures took and bare him off, 

And all was still : then she. " The end is come 

And I am shamed forever ; " and he said, 

" Mine be the shame ; mine was the sin : but rise, 

And fly to my strong castle over seas : 

There will I hide thee, till my life shall end. 

There hold thee with my life against the world." 

She answer'd, "Lancelot, wilt thou hold me so? 

Nay friend, for we have taken our farewells. 



552 GUINEVERE. 

Would God, that thou could'st hide me from myself! 

Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thou 

Unwedded : yet rise now, and let us fly, 

For I will draw me into sanctuary, 

And bide my doom." So Lancelot got her horse, 

Set her thereon, and mounted on his own. 

And then they rode to the divided way. 

There kiss'd, and parted weeping : for he past. 

Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen, 

Back to his land ; but she to Almesbury 

Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald, 

And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald 

Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan : 

And in herself she moan'd " Too late, too late ! " 

Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn, 

A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying high, 

Croak'd, and she thought, " He spies a field of death 

For now the Heathen of the Northern Sea, 

Lured by the crimes and frailties of the court, 

Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land." 

And when she came to Almesbury she spake 
There to the nuns, and said, " Mine enemies 
Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, 
Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask 
Her name to whom ye yield it, till her time 
To tell you : " and her beauty, grace, and power 
Wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared 
To ask it. 

So the stately Queen abode 
For many a week, unknown, among the nuns ; 
Nor with them mix'd, nor told her name, nor sought, 
Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for shrift. 
But communed only with the little maid. 
Who pleased her with a babbling heedlessness 
Which often lured her from herself; but now, 
This night, a rumor wildly blown about 
Came, that Sir Modred had usurped the realm. 
And leagued him with the heathen, while the King 
Was waging war on Lancelot : then she thought, 
" With what a hate the people and the King- 
Must hate me," and bow'd down upon her hands 
Silent, until the little maid, who brook'd 
No silence, brake it, uttering, " Late ! so late ! 
What hour, I wonder, now ? " and when she drew 



K 



GUINEVERE. 553 

No answer, by and by began to hum 
An air the nuns had taught her ; " Late, so late ! " 
Which when she heard, the Queen look'd up, and said, 
" O maiden, if indeed you list to sing, 
Siiig, and unbind my heart that I may weep." 
sang the little maid. 

" ' Late, late, so late ! and dark the night and chill ! 
Late, late, so late ! but we can enter still. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

" ' No light had we : for that we do repent ; 
And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

" ' No light : so late ! and dark and chill the night I 
O let us in, that we may find the light ! 
Too late, too late : ye cannot enter now. 

" ' Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet ? 
O let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet ! 
No, no, too late ! ye cannot enter now.' " 

So sang the novice, while full passionately. 
Her head upon her hands, remembering 
Her thought wdien first she came, w^ept the sad Queen. 
Then said the little novice prattling to her, — 

" O pray you, noble lady, Aveep no more ; 
But let my words, the words of one so small, 
Who knoAving nothing knows but to obey, 
And if I do not there is penance given — 
Comfort your sorrows ; for they do not flow 
From evil done ; right sure am I of that. 
Who see your tender grace and stateliness. 
But weigh your sorrows with our lord the King's, 
And weighing find them less ; for gone is he 
To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot there, 
liound that strong castle where he holds the Queen ; 
And Modred whom he left in charge of all. 
The traitor — Ah sweet lady, the King's grief 
For his own self, and his own Queen, and realm. 
Must needs be thrice as great as any of ours. 
For me, I thank the saints, I am not great.- 
For if there ever come a grief to me 



554 GUINEVERE. 

I cry my cry In silence, and have done : 

None knows it, and my tears have brought me good 

But even were the griefs of little ones 

As great as those of great ones, yet this grief 

Is added to the griefs the great must bear, 

That howsoever much they may desire 

Silence, they cannot weep behind a cloud : 

As even here they talk at Almesbury 

About the good King and his wicked Queen, 

And were I such a King with such a Queen, 

Well might I wish to veil her wickedness. 

But were I such a King, it could not be." 

Then to her own sad heart mutter'd the Queen. 
" Will the child kill me with her innocent talk ? " 
But openly she answer'd, " Must not I, 
If this false traitor have displaced his lord. 
Grieve with the common grief of all the realm ? " 

" Yea," said the maid, " this is all woman's grief. 
That she is woman, whose disloyal life 
Hath wrought confusion in the Table Round 
Which good King Arthur founded, years ago, 
With signs and miracles and wonders, there 
At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen." 

Then thought the Queen within herself again ; 
" Will the child kill me with her foohsh prate ? " 
But openly she spake and said to her ; 
" O little maid, shut in by nunnery walls, 
What canst thou know of Kings and Tables Bound, 
Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs 
And simple miracles of thy nunnery ? " 

To whom the little novice garrulously. 
" Yea, but I know : the land was fall of signs 
And wonders ere the coming of the Queen. 
So said my father, and himself was knight 
Of the great Table — at the founding of it ; 
And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and he said 
That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain 
After the sunset, down the coast, he heard 
Strange music, and he paused and turning — there 
All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse, 
Each with a beacon-star upon his head, 



GUINEVERE. 555 

And with a wild sea-light about his feet, 

He saw them — headland after headland flame 

Far on into the rich heart of the west : 

And in the light the white mermaiden swam, 

And strono- man-breasted thinos stood from the sea, 

And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the land, 

To which the little elves of chasm and cleft 

Made answer, sounding like a distant horn. 

So said my father — yea, and furthermore. 

Next morning, while he past the dim-lit woods, 

Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy 

Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower. 

That shook beneath them, as the thistle shakes 

When three gray linnets wrangle for the seed : 

And still at evenings on before his horse 

The flickering fairy-circle wheel'd and broke 

Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd and broke 

Flying, for all the land was full of life. 

And when at last he came to Camelot, 

A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand 

Swung round the lighted lantern of the hall ; 

And in the hall itself was such a feast 

As never man had dream'd ; for every knight 

Had whatsoever meat he long'd for served 

By hands unseen ; and even as he said 

Down in the cellars merry bloated things 

Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on the butts 

While the wine ran : so glad were spirits and men 

Before the coming of the sinful Queen." 

Then spake the Queen and somewhat bitterly, 
u WTpj-e ^}jgy gQ g]^(j^ 9 ill prophets were they all, 
Spirits and men : could none of them foresee, 
Not even thy wise father with his signs 
And wonders, what has fall'n upon the realm ? " 

To whom the novice garrulously again, 
" Yea, one, a bard ; of whom my father said. 



sunir. 



6» 



Full many a noble war-song had he s 
Ev'n in the presence of an enemy's fleet. 
Between the steep cliff" and the coming wave ; 
And many a mystic lay of life and death 
Had chanted on the smoky mountain-tops, 
When round him bent the spirits of the hills 
With all their dewy hair blown back like flame 



556 GUINEVERE. 

So said my father — and that night the bard 

Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang the King 

As wellnigh more than man, and rail'd at those 

Who call'd him the false son of Gorlois : 

For there was no man knew from whence he came ; 

But after tempest, when the long wave broke 

All down the thundering shores of Bude and Bos, 

There came a day as still as heaven, and then 

They found a naked child upon the sands 

Of dark Dundagil by the Cornish sea ; 

And that was Arthur ; and they foster'd him 

Till he by miracle was approven king : 

And that his grave should be a mystery 

From all men, hke his birth ; and could he find 

A woman in her womanhood as great 

As he was in his manhood, then, he sang. 

The twain together well might change the world. 

But even in the middle of his song 

He falter'd, and his hand fell from the harp. 

And pale he turn'd, and reel'd, and would have fall'n, 

But that they stay'd him up ; nor would he tell 

His vision ; but what doubt that he foresaw 

This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen ? " 

Then thought the Queen, " Lo ! they have set her on, 
Our simple-seeming Abbess and her nuns, 
To play upon me," and bow'd her head nor spake. 
Whereat the novice crying, with clasp'd hands, 
Shame on her own garrulity garrulously. 
Said the good nuns would check her gadding tongue 
Full often, "And, sweet lady, if I seem 
To vex an ear too sad to listen to me, 
Unmannerly, with prattling and the tales 
Which my good father told, check me too : 
Nor let me shame my father's memory, one 
Of noblest manners, tho' himself would say 
Sir Lancelot had the noblest ; and he died, 
Kill'd in a tilt, come next, five summers back, 
And left me ; but .of others who remain, 
. And of the two first-famed for courtesy — 
And pray you check me if I ask amiss — 
But pray you, which had noblest, while you moved 



Among them, Lancelot or our lord the Kin 



9 



Then the pale Queen look'd up and answer'd her. 



GUINEVERE. 557 

" Sir Lancelot, as became a noble knight, 
Was gracious to all ladies, and the same 
In open battle or the tiltlng-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and the King 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and these two 
Were the most nobly-mannered men of all ; 
For manners are not idle, but the fruit 
Of loyal nature, and of noble mind." 

" Yea," said the maid, " be manners such fair fruit ? 
Then Lancelot's needs must be a thousand-fold 
Less noble, being, as all rumor runs. 
The most disloyal friend in all the world." 

To which a mournful answer made the Queen. 
" O closed about by narrowing nunnery-walls, 
Wliat knowest thou of the world, and all its lights 
And sliadows, all the wealth and all the woe ? 
If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight. 
Were for one hour less noble than himself, 
Pray for him that he 'scape the doom of iire. 
And weep for her who drew him to his doom." 

'• Yea," said the little novice, " I pray for both ; 
But I should all as soon believe that his. 
Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the King's, 
As I could think, sweet lady, yours would be 
Such as they are, were you the sinful Queen." 

So she, like many other babbler, hurt 
Whom she would soothe, and harm'd Avhere she would heal ; 
For here a sudden flash of wrathful heat 
Fired all the pale face of the Queen, who cried, 
" Such as thou art be never maiden more 
Forever ! thou their tool, set on to plague 
And play upon, and harry me, petty spy 
And traitress." When that storm of anger brake 
From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose, 
White as her veil, and stood before the Queen 
As tremulously as foam upon the beach 
Stands in a wind, ready to break and fly, 
And when the Queen had added, " Get thee hence," 
Fled frighted. Then that other left alone 
Sigh'd, and began to gather heart again, 



558 GUINEVERE. 

Saying in herself, " The simple, fearful child 
Meant nothing, but my own too fearful guilt 
Simpler than any child, betrays itself 
But help me. Heaven, for surely I repent. 
For what is true repentance but in thought — ■ 
Not ev'n in inmost thought to think again 
The sins that made the past so pleasant to us : 
And I have sworn never to see him more. 
To see him more." 

And ev'n in saying this, 
Her memory from old habit of the mind 
Went slipping back upon the golden days 
In which she saw him first, when Lancelot came, 
Reputed the best knight and goodliest man, 
Ambassador, to lead her to his lord 
Arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead 
Of his and her retinue moving, they, 
Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love 
And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for the time 
Way maytime, and as yet no sin was dream'd,) 
Rode under groves that look'd a paradise 
Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth 
That seem'd the heavens upbreaking thro' the earth, 
And on from hill to hill, and every day 
Beheld at noon in some delicious dale 
The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised 
For brief repast or afternoon repose 
By couriers gone before ; and on again. 
Till yet once more ere set of sun they saw 
The Dragon of the great Pendragonship, 
That crown'd the state-pavilion of the King, 
Blaze by the rushing brook Or silent well. 

But when the Queen immersed in such a trance,. 
And moving thro' the past unconsciously. 
Came to that point, when first she saw the King 
Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd to find 
Her journey done, glanced at him, thought him cold, 
High, self-contain'd, and passionless, not like him, 
" Not like my Lancelot " — while she brooded thus 
And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again. 
There rode an armed warrior to the doors. 
A murmuring whisper thro' the nunnery ran, 
Then on a sudden a cry, " The King." She sat, 
Stiff-stricken, listening ; but when armed feet 



GUINEVERK. 



559 



TIu'o' the long gallery from the outer doors 
Rang coming, prone from off' her seat she fell, 
And grovell'd with her face against the floor : 
There -with her milk-white arms and shadowy hair 
She made her face a darkness from the King : 
And in the darkness heard his armed feet 
Pause by her : then came silence, then a voice, 
Monotonou-s and hollow like a Ghost's 
Denouncing jndginc'iit, but, tho' changed, the King's. 




*' Liest thou liere so low, the child of one 
I honor'd, happy, dead before thy shame ? 
Well is it that no child is born of thee. 



560 GUINEVERE. 

The children born of thee are sword and fire, 
Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws. 
The craft of kindred and the Godless hosts 
Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern Sea. 
Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right arm. 
The mightiest of my knights, abode with me. 
Have everywhere about this land of Christ 
In twelve great battles ruining overthrown. 
And knowest thou now from whence I come — from him, 
From waging bitter war with him : and he. 
That did not shun to smite me in worse way, 
Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left, 
He spared to lift his hand against the King 
Who made him knight : but many a knight was slain ; 
And many more, and all his kith and kin 
Clave to him, and abode in his own land. 
And many more when Modred raised revolt, 
Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave 
To Modred, and a remnant stays with me. 
And of this remnant will I leave a part. 
True men who love me still, for whom I live. 
To guard thee in the wild hour coming on, ' 

Lest but a hair of this low head be harm'd. 
Fear not : thou shalt be guarded till my death. 
Howbeit I know, if ancient prophesies 
Have err'd not, that I march to meet my doom. 
Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me. 
That I the King should greatly care to live ; 
-sJFor thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life. ^ ' 
Bear with me for the last time while I show, 
Ev'n for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinn'd. 
For when the Roman left us, and their law 

Ralax'd its hold upon us, and the Avays 

AVere fill'd with rapine, here and there a deed 

Of prowess done redress'd a random wrong. 

But I was first of all the kings who drew 

The knighthood-errant of this realm and all 

The realms together under me, their Head, 

In that fair order of my Table Round, 

A glorious company, the flower of men. 

To serve as model for the mighty world. 

And be the fair beginning of a time. 

I made them lay their hands in mine and swear 

To reverence the King, as if he were 

Their conscience, and their consoien''"3 as their Kinofs 



GUINEVERE. 561 

To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, 
To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, 

To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it^^ ^, J/i j a^^ ji ■ 

To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, <' r v ^^^ v*^ 

To love one maiden only, cleave to her, /l/^u^'J"yy>^ £A/0 L4a^<^ 

And worship her by years of noble deeds, 

Until they won her ; for indeed I knew ' 

Of no more subtle master under heaven 
Than is the maiden passion for a maid, 
Not only to keep down the base in man. 
But teach high thought, and amiable words 
And courtliness, and the desire of fame, 
And love of truth, and all that makes a man. 
And all this throve until I wedded thee ! 
Believing, 'Lo mine helpmate, one to feel 
My purpose and rejoicing in my joy.' 
Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot ; 
Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt ; 
Then others, following these my mightiest knights, 
And drawing foul ensample from fair names, 
Siun'd also, till the loathsome opposite 
Of all my heart had destined did obtain, 
And all thro' tliee ! so that this life of mine 
I guard as God's high gift from scathe and wrong, 
Not greatly care to lose ; but rather think 
How sad it were for Arthur, should he live, 
To sit once more within his lonely hall, 
And miss the wonted number of my knights. 
And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds 
■ As in the golden days before thy sin. . 
For Avhich of us, who might be left, could speak 
Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee ? 
And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk 
Thy shadow still would glide from room to room. 
And I should evermore be vext with thee 
In hanging robe or vacant ornament. 
Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. 
For think not, tho' thou would'st not love thy lord, 
Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee. 
I am not made of so slight elements. 
Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame. 
I hold that man the worst of public foes 
Who either for his own or children's sake. 
To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife 
"Whom he knows f^lse, abide and rule the house : 



562 GUINEVERE. 

For being thro' his cowardice allow'd 
Her station, taken everywhere for pure, 
She, like a new disease, unknown to men. 
Creeps, Tio precaution used, among the crowd, 
Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and saps 
The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse 
With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young. 
Worst of the worst were that man he that reigns ! 
Better the King's waste hearth and aching heart 
Than thou reseated in thy place of light. 
The mockery of my people, and their bane." 

He paused, and in the pause she crept an Inch 
Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet. 
Far off a solitary trumpet blew. 
Then waiting by the doors the warhorse nelgh'd, 
As at a friend's voice, and he spake again. 

" Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes, 
I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, 
I, whose vast pity almost makes me die 
To see thee, laying there thy golden head. 
My pride In happier summers, at my feet. 
The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce law, 
The doom of treason and the flaming death, 
(When first I learnt thee hidden here) is past. 
The pang — which while I weigh'd thy heart with one 
Too wholly true to dream untruth In thee. 
Made my tears burn — is also past. In part. 
And all Is past, the sin is sinn'd, and I, 
Lo ! I forgive thee, as Eternal God 
Forgives : do thou for thine own soul the rest. 
But how to take last leave of all I loved ? 

golden hair, with which I used to play 
Not knowing ! O imperial-moulded form. 
And beauty such as never woman wore, 
Until It came a kingdom's curse with thee — 

1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine, 

But Lancelot's : nay, they never were the King's. 

I cannot take thy hand ; that too Is flesh, 

And In the flesh thou hast sinn'd ; and mine own flesh, 

Here looking down on thine polluted, cries, 

' I loathe thee : ' yet not less, O Guinevere, 

For I was ever virgin save for thee. 

My love thro' flesh hath wrought into my life 



GUINEVERE. 0G3 



So far, that my doom is, I love thee still. 

Let no man dream but that I love thee still. 

Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul, 

And so thou lean on our fair father Christ, 

Hereafter in that world where all are pure 

We two may meet before high God, and thou 

Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know 

I am thine husband — not a smaller soul. 

Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, 

I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence. 

Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet blow : 

They summon me their King to lead mine hosts 

Far down to that great battle in the west, 

Where I must strike against my sister's son, 

Leagued with the lords of the White Horse and knights 

Once mine, and strike him dead, and meet myself 

Death, or I know not what mysterious doom. 

And thou remaining here wilt learn the event ; 

But hither shall I never come again, 

Never lie by thy side, see thee no more, 

Farewell ! '* 

And while she grovell'd at his feet, 
She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck, 
And, in the darkness o'er her fallen head, 
Perceived the waving of his hands that blest. 

Then, listening till those armed steps were gone. 
Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish found 
The casement : '^ Peradventure," so she thought, 
" If I might see his face, and not be seen." 
And lo, he sat on horseback at the door ! 
And near him the sad nuns with each a light 
Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen, 
To guard and foster her for evermore. 
And while he spake to these his helm was lower'd, 
To which for crest the golden dragon clung 
Of Britain ; so she did not see the face, 
Which then was as an angel's, but she saw. 
Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights. 
The Dragon of the gi-eat Pendragonship 
Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire. 
And even then he turn'd ; and more and more 
The moony vapor rolling round the King, 
Who seem'd the phantom of a Giant in it, 
Enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray 



V 



564 GUINEVERE. 

And grayer, till himself became as mist 
Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom. 

Then she stretch'd out her arms and cried aloud, 
" Oh Arthur ! " there her voice brake suddenly, 
Then — as a stream that spouting from a cliff 
Fails in mid-air, but gathering at the base 
Remakes itself, and flashes down the vale — 
Went on in passionate utterance. 

" Gone — my lord ! 
Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be slain ! 
And he forgave me, and I could not speak. 
Farewell ? I should have answer'd his farewell. 
His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord the King, 
My own true lord ! how dare I call him mine ? 
The shadow of another cleaves to me, ' 
And makes me one pollution : he, the Eang, 
Call'd me polluted : shall I kill myself? 
What help in that ? I cannot kill my sin, 
If soul be soul ; nor can I kill my shame ; 
No, nor by living can I live it down. 
The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months, 
The months will add themselves and make the years, 
The years will roll into the centuries. 
And mine will ever be a name of scorn. 
I must not dwell on that defeat of fame. 
Let the world be ; that is but of the world. 
What else ? what hope ? I think there was a hope. 
Except he mock'd me when he spake of hope ; 
His hope he call'd it ; but he never mocks, 
For mockery is the fume of little hearts. 
And blessed be the King, who hath forgiven 
My wickedness to him, and left me hope 
That in mine own heart I can live down sin 
And be his mate hereafter in the heavens 
Before high God. Ah great and gentle lord, 
Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint 
Among his warring senses, to thy knights — 
To whom my false voluptuous pride, that took 
Full easily all impressions from below, 
Would not look up, or half-despised the height 
To which I would not or I could not climb — 
I thought I could not breathe in that fine air 
That pure severity of perfect light — 
I wanted warmth and color which I found 



GUINEVERE. 565 

In Lancelot — now I see tliee what thou art, 
Thou art the highest and most human too, 
Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there none 
Will tell the King I love him tho' so late ? 
Now — ere he goes to the great Battle ? none : 
Myself must tell him in that purer life, 
But now it were too daring. Ah my God, 
What might I not have made of thy fair world, 
Had I but loved thy highest creature here ? 
It was my duty to have loved the highest ; 
It surel}' was my profit had I known : f 

It would have been my pleasure had I seen. | 

We needs must love the highest when we see it, I 
Not Lancelot, nor another." f / 

-' Here her hand 
Grasp'd, made her veil her eyes : she look'd and saw 
The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to her, 
" Yea, little maid, for am / not forgiven ? " 
Then glancing up beheld the holy nuns 
All round her, weeping ; and her heart was loosed 
Within her, and she wept with these and said : — 

" Ye know me then, that wicked one, who broke 
The vast design and purpose of the King. 

shut me round with narrowing nunnery-walls, 
Meek maidens, from the voices crying ' Shame.' 

1 must not scorn myself: he loves me still. 
Let no one dream but that he loves me still. 
So let me, if you do not shudder at me 
Nor shun to call me sister, dAvell with you ; 
Wear black and white, and be a nun like you ; 
Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts : 
Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys. 
But not rejoicing ; mingle with your rites ; 

Pray and be pray'd for ; lie before your shrines ; 

Do each low office of your holy house ; 

Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole 

To poor sick people, richer in His eyes 

Who ransom'd us, and haler too than I ; 

And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own ; 

And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer 

The sombre close of that voluptuous day. 

Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King." 

She said : they took her to themselves ; and she, 



566 GUINEVERE. 

Still hoping, fearing, "Is it yet too late ? " 
Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess died. 
Then she, for her good deeds and her pm^e life. 
And for the power of ministration in her, 
And likewise for the high rank she had borne, 
Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, lived 
For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, past 
To where beyond these voices there is peace. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm ; 
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands ; 
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf 
In cluster ; then a moulder'd church ; and higher 
A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill ; 
And high in heaven behind it a gray down 
With Danish barrows ; and a hazelwood, 
By autumn-nutters haunted, flourishes 
Green in a cuplike hollow^ of the down. 

Here on this beach a hundred years ago, 
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, 
The prettiest little damsel in the port. 
And Philip Ray, the miller's only son. 
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd 
Among the waste and lumber of the shore. 
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets. 
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn ; 
And built their castles of dissolving sand 
To watch them overflow'd, or following up 
And flying the white breaker, daily left 
The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliif : 
In this the children play'd at keeping house. 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 



568 ENOCH ARDEN. 

While Annie still was mistress ; but at times 
Enoch would hold possession for a week : 
" This is my house and this my little wife." 
" Mine too," said Philip, " turn and turn about : " 
When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch, stronger made, 
Was master : then would Philip, his blue eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, 
Shriek out, " I hate you, Enoch," and at this 
The little wife would weep for company, 
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake. 
And say she would be little wife to both. 

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, 
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun 
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart 
On that one girl ; and Enoch spoke his love. 
But Philip loved in silence ; and the girl 
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him ; 
But she loved Enoch ; tho' she knew it not. 
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set 
A purpose evermore before his eyes. 
To hoard all savings to the uttermost, 
To purchase his own boat, (and make a home 
For Annie :) and so prosper'd that at last 
A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 
A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 
For leagues along tliat breaker-beaten coast 
Than Enoch. , Likewise had he served a year 
On board a merchantman, and made himself 
Full sailor ; and he thrice had pluck'd a life 
From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas : 
And all men look'd upon him favorably : 
And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May 
He purchased his own boat, and made a home 
For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up 
The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill. 

Then, on a golden autumn eventide. 
The younger people making holiday. 
With bag and sack and basket, great and small, 
Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay'd 
(His father lying sick and needing him) 
An hour behind ; but as he climb'd the hill. 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 569 

Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-liand, 
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 
All kindled by a still and sacred fire, 
That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd, 
And in their eyes and faces read his doom ; 
Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd, 
And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 
Crept down into the hollows of the wood ; 
There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking, 
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past. 
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells. 
And merrily ran the years, seven happy years. 
Seven happy years of health and competence. 
And mutual love and honorable toil ; 
With children ; first a daughter. In him woke. 
With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish 
To save all earnings to the uttermost. 
And give his child a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or hers ; a wish renew'd, 
AVhen two years after came a boy to be 
The rosy idol of her solitudes, 
While Enoch was abroad on wi-athfid seas, 
Or often journeying landward ; for in truth 
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, 
Rough-redden'd Avith a thousand winter gales, 
Not only to the market-cross were known, 
But in the leafy lanes behind the down. 
Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp, 
And peacock yew-tree of the lonely Hall, 
Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering. 

Then came a change, as all things human change. 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow port 
Open'd a larger haven : thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or sea ; 
And once when there, and clambering on a mast 
In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell : 
A limb was broken when they lifted him ; 
And while he lay recovering there, his wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one : 
Another hand crept too across his trade. 
Taking her bread and theirs : and on him fell. 



570 ENOCH ARDEX. 

Altho' a ^ave and staid God-fearing man, 

Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. 

He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, 

To see his children leading evermore 

Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth. 

And her he loved a beggar : then he pray'd, 

" Save them from this, whatever comes to me." 

And while he pray'd, the master of that ship 

Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, 

Came, for he knew the man and valued him, 

Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 

And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go ? 

There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, 

Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place ? 

And Enoch all at once assented to it, 

Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance appear'd 
No graver than as when some little cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun. 
And isles a light in the offing : yet the wife — 
When he was gone — the children — what to do ? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans ; 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved her well — 
How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her ! 
He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what she brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in trade 
With all that seamen needed or their wives — 
So might she keep the house while he was gone. 
Should he not trade himself out yonder ? go 
This voyage more than once ? yea twice or thrice — 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich. 
Become the master of a larger craft, 
With fuller profits lead an easier life, 
Have all his pretty young ones educated, 
And pass his days in peace among his own. 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all : 
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, 
Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. 
Forward she started with a happy cry, 
And laid the feeble infant in his arras ; 
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs, 
Appraised his weight and fondled fatherlike, 



EXOCH ARDEN. 571 

But had no heart to break his purposes 
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. 

Then fii-st since Enoch's golden ring had girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his will : 
Yet not with brawling opposition she, 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 
Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd 
(Sure that all evil would come out of it) 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared. 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
He not for his own self caring but her. 
Her and her children, let her plead in vain ; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. 

For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand 
To fit their little streetward sitting-room 
With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. 
So all day long till Enoch's last at home, 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, 
Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear 
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang. 
Till this was ended, and his careful hand, — 
The space was narrow, — having order'd all 
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; and he, 
Who needs would work for Annie to the last, 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears, 
Save, as his Annie's, Avere a laughter to him. 
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 
Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery 
Where God-in-man is one with nian-in-God, 
Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes 
Whatever came to him : and then he said, 
"Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 
Will bring ftiir weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, 
For I '11 be back, my girl, before you know it; " 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, " and he, 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one — 
Nay — for I love him all the better for it — 



572 ENOCH ARDEN. 

God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, 
And make him merry, when I come home again. 
Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go." 

Him running on thus hopefully she heard, 
And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd 
The current of his talk to graver things, 
In sailor-fashion roughly sermonizing 
On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 
Heard and not heard him ; as the village girl, 
Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, 
Musing on him that used to fill it for her, 
Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 

At length she spoke, " O Enoch, you are wise ; 
And yet for all your wisdom well know I 
That I shall look upon your face no more." 

" Well then," said Enoch, " I shall look on yours. 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 
(He named the day) get you a seaman's glass, 
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears." 

But when the last of those last moments came, 
"Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, 
Look to the babes, and till I come again, 
Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 
And fear no more for me ; or if you fear 
Cast all your cares on God ; that anchor holds. 
Is He not yonder in those uttermost 
Parts of the morning ? if I flee to these 
Can I go from Him ? and the sea is His, 
The sea is His : He made it." 

Enoch rose, 
Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife. 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones ; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness, 
When Annie would have raised him Enoch said, 
" Wake him not ; let him sleep ; how should the child 
Remember this ? " and kiss'd him in his cot. 
But Annie from her baby's forehead dipt 
A tiny curl, and gave it : this he kept 



EXOCH ARDEN. 573 

Thro' all his future ; but now hastily caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. 

She when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came, 
Borrow'd a glass, but all in A'ain : perhaps 
She could not fix the glass to suit her eye ; 
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous ; 
She saw him not : and Avhile he stood on deck 
Waving, the moment and the vessel past. 

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 
She- watch'd it, and departed weeping for him : 
Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave, 
Set her sad will no less to chime with his, 
But throve not in her trade, not being bred 
To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, 
Nor asking overmuch and taking less. 
And still foreboding, " What would Enoch say ? " 
For more than once, in days of difficulty 
And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 
Than what she gave in buying what she sold : 
She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it ; and thus, 
Expectant of that news which never came, 
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, 
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly-born and grew 
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it 
With all a mother's care : nevertheless. 
Whether her business often call'd her from it, 
Or thro' the want of what it needed most, 
Or means to pay the voice who best could tell 
What most it needed — howsoe'er it was. 
After a lingering, — ere she was aware, — 
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly. 
The little innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie buried it, 
Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 
" Surely," said Philip, " I may see her now, 
May be some little comfort ;" therefore went. 
Past thro' the solitary room in front. 



574 ENOCH AKDEN. 

Paused for a moment at an Inner door, 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, 
Enter'd ; but Annie, seated with her grief, 
Fresh from the burial of her little one, 
Cared not to look on any human face. 
But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falteringly, 
"Annie, I came to ask a favor of you." 

He spoke ; the passion in her moan'd reply, 
" Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am ! " half abash'd him ; yet unask'd, 
His bashfulness and tenderness at war. 
He set himself beside her, saying to her : 

" I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, 
Enoch, your husband : I have ever said 
You chose the best amons; us — a strong man : 
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand 
To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro* 
And wherefore did he go this weary way. 
And leave you lonely ? not to see the world — 
For pleasure ? — nay, but for the wherewithal 
To give his babes a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or yours : that was his wish. 
And if he come again, vext will he be 
To find the precious morning hours were lost; 
And it would vex him even in his grave, 
If he could know his babes were running wild 
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now — 
Have we not known each other all our lives ? 
I do beseech you by the love you bear 
Him and his children not to say me nay — • 
For, if you will, when Enoch comes again 
Why then he shall repay me — if you will, 
Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 
Now let me put the boy and girl to school: 
This is the favor that I came to ask." 

Then Annie with her broAvs against the wall 
Answer'd, " I cannot look you in the face ; 
I seem so foolish and so broken down. 
When you came in my sorrow broke me down ; 
And now I think your kindness breaks me down ; 
But Enoch lives ; that is borne in on me : 



p:noch arden. 575 

He will repay you : money can be repaid ; 
Not kindness such as yours." 

And Philip ask'd, 
" Then you will let me, Annie ? " 

There she turn'd, 
She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him, 
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face. 
Then calling down a blessing on his head 
Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately, 
And past into tlie little garth beyond. 
So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 

. Then Pliilip put the boy and girl to school, 
And bought them needful books, and every way, 
Like one who does his duty by his own. 
Made himself theirs ; and tho' for Annie's sake, 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port. 
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, 
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent 
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit, 
The late and early roses from his wall. 
Or conies from the down, and now and then, 
With some pretext of fineness in the meal 
To save the offence of charitable, flour 
From his tall mill that whistled on the waste. 

But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind : 
Scarce coukl the woman when he came upon her, 
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude 
Light on a broken word to thank him with. 
But Philip was her children's all-in-all ; 
From distant corners of the street they ran 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily ; 
Lords of his house and of his mill were they ; 
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him. 
And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd 
As Enoch lost ; for Enoch seem'd to them 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream. 
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 
Down at the far end of an avenue, 
Going we know not where : and so ten years, 



576 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Since Enoch left his hearth and native land, 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. 

It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd 
To go with others, nutting to the wood. 
And Annie would go with them ; then they begg'd 
For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too : 
Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust, 
Blanch'd with his mill, they found ; and saying to him, 
" Come with us Father Philip," he denied ; 
But when the children pluck'd at him to go, 
He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish. 
For was not Annie with them ? and they went. 

But after scaling half the weary down. 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, all her force 
Fail'd her ; and sighing, " Let me rest," she said : 
So Philip rested with her, well content ; 
While all the younger ones with jubilant cries 
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously 
Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke 
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away 
Their taAvny clusters, crying to each other 
And calling, here and there, about the Avood. 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life 
He crept into the shadow : at last he said. 
Lifting his honest forehead, "Listen, Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in the wood." 
" Tired, Annie ? " for she did not speak a word. 
" Tired ? " but her face had fall'n upon her hands ; 
At which, as with a kind of anger in him, 
" The ship was lost," he said; " the ship was lost ! 
No more of that ! why should you kill yourself 
And make them orphans quite ? " And Annie said, 
" I thought not of it : but — I know not why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary." 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. 
"Annie, there is a thing uf)on my mind. 
And it has been upon my mind so long, 



F.NOCIl AKDKX. 

That tho' I know not when It first cauio there, 

I know that it will out at last. O Annie, 

It is beyond all hope, against all ehanee, 

That he who left you ten long years ago 

Shouhl still be living; well then — let me speak: 



\ 




I grieve to see you poor and wanting help :. 

1 cannot help you as I wish to do 

Unless — they say that women are so quick — 

Perhaps you know what I would have you know 

I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove 

A father to your children : I do think 

They love me as a father : I am sure 

That I love them as if they were mine own ; 



578 ENOCH ARBEN. 

And I believe, if you were fast my wife, 
That after all these sad uncertain years. 
We might be still as happy as God grants 
To any of His creatures. Think upon it : 
For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care. 
No burden, save my care for you and yours : 
And we have known each other all our lives. 
And I have loved you longer than you know." 

Then answer'd Annie ; tenderly she spoke : 
" You have been as God's good angel in our house* 
God bless you for it, God reward you for it, 
Philip, with something happier than myself 
Can one love twice ? can you be ever loved 
As Enoch was ? what is it that you ask ? " 
" I am content," he answer'd, " to be loved 
A little after Enoch." " O," she cried, 
Scared as it were, " dear Philip, wait awhile : 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come — 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long : 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year : 

wait a little ! " Philip sadly said, 
"Annie, as I have waited all my life 

1 well may wait a little." " Nay," she cried, 

" I am bound : you have my promise — in a year : 
Will you not bide your year as I bide mine '? " 
And Philip answer'd', " I will bide my year." 

Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day 
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead ; 
Then fearing night and chill for Annie, rose, 
And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood. 
Up came the children laden with their spoil ; 
Then all descended to the port, and there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand, 
Saying gently, "Annie, when I spoke to you. 
That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong. 
I am always bound to you, but you are free." 
Then Annie weeping answer'd, " I am bound." 

She spoke ; and in one moment as it were, 
While yet she went about her household ways, 
Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words. 
That he had loved her lono;er than she knew. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 579 

That auturau into autumn flasli'd again, 
And there he stood once more before her face, 
Claiming her promise. " Is it a year ? " she ask'd. 
" Yes, if the nuts," lie said, " be ripe again : 
Come out and see." But she — she put him off — 
So much to look to — such a change — a month — 
Give her a month — she knew that she was bound — 
A month — no more. Then Philip with his eyes 
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice 
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, 
" Take your own time, Annie, take your own time." 
And Annie could have wept for pity of him ; 
And yet she held him on delayingly 
With many a scarce-believable excuse, 
Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, 
Till half another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port. 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost. 
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her ; 
Some that she but held off to draw him on ; 
And others laugh'd at her and Philip too, 
As simple folk that knew not their own minds ; 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 
Would hint at worse in either. Her own son 
Was silent, tho' he often look'd his Avish ; 
But evermore the daughter prest upon her 
To wed the pian so dear to all of them, 
And lift the household out of poverty ; 
And Philip's rosy face contracting grew 
Careworn and wan ; and all these things fell on her 
Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly 
Pray'd for a sign, " My Enoch, is he gone ? " 
Then compass'd round by the blind wall of night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart, 
Started from bed, and struck herself a light, 
Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign. 
Suddenly put her finger on the text, 
" Under a palm-tree." That was nothing to her : 



580 ENOCH ARDEN". 

No meaning there : she closed the Book and slept : 

When lo ! her Enoch sitting on a height, 

Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun : 

" He is gone," she thought, " he is happy, he is singing 

Hosanna in the highest : yonder shines 

The Sun of Rigliteousness, and these be palms 

Whereof the happy people strowing cried, 

' Hosanna in the highest ! ' " Here she woke. 

Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him, 

" There is no reason why we should not wed." 

" Then for God's sake," he answer'd, " both our sakes. 

So you will wed me, let it be at once." 

So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, 
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path, 
She knew not whence ; a whisper on her ear. 
She knew not what ; nor loved she to be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 
What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often 
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch. 
Fearing to enter : Philip thought he knew : 
Such doubts and fears were common to her state. 
Being with child : but when her child was born. 
Then her new child was as herself renew'd. 
Then the new mother came about her heart, 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all. 
And that mysterious instinct wholly died. 

And where was Enoch ? prosperously sail'd 
The ship " Good Fortune," tho' at setting forth 
The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook 
And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext 
She slipt across the summer of the world, 
Then after a long tumble about the Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and fair. 
She passing thro' the summer world again. 
The breath of heaven came continually 
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, 
Till silent in her oriental haven. 

There Enoch traded for himself, and bought 
Quaint monsters for the market of those times, 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 581 

Less lucky her llOlne-^•oyage : at first indeed 
Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day, 
Scarce rocking, her full-busted figure-head 
Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows : 
Then follow'd calms, and then Avinds variable. 
Then baffling, a long course of them ; and last 
Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens 
Till hard upon the cry of " breakers " came 
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 
But Enoch and two others. Half the night, 
Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars, 
These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn 
Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 

No want was there of human sustenance. 
Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots ; 
ISor save for pity Avas it hard to take 
The helpless life so wild that it Avas tame. 
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge 
They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a hut, 
Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, 
Set in tin's Eden of all plenteousness, 
Dwelt Avith eternal summer, ill-content. 

For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy, 
Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and Avreck, 
Lay lingering out a three-years' death-in-life. 
They could not leave him. After he Avas gone, 
The tAvo remaining found a fallen stem ; 
And Enoch's comi-ade, careless of himself, 
Fire-holloAving this in Indian fashion, fell 
Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. 
In those tAvo deaths he read God's Avarning, " Avait." 

The mountain Avooded to the peak, the laAvns 
And Avinding glades high up like Avays to heaven, 
The slender cocoa's drooping croAvn of plumes. 
The lightning flash of insect and of bird. 
The lustre of the long convolvuluses 
That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran 
Ev'n to the limit of the land, the gloAvs 
And glories of the broad belt of the Avorld, 
All these he saAv ; but Avhat he fain had seen 
He could not see, the kindly human face, 
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard 



582 ENOCH ARDElSr. 

The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, 

The league-long roller thundering on the reef, 

The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd 

And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep 

Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, 

As down the shore he ranged, or all day long 

Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 

A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail : 

No sail from day to day, but every day 

The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 

Among the palms and ferns and precipices ; 

The blaze upon the waters to the east; 

The blaze upon his island overhead ; 

The blaze upon the waters to the west ; 

Then the great stars that globed themselves in heaven, 

The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again 

The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no sail. 

There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch, 
So still, the golden lizard on him paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms moved 
Before him haunting him, or he himself 
Moved haunting people, things, and places, known 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, 
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes. 
The peacock yew-tree and the lonely Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill 
November dawns and dewy-glooming downs. 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, 
And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas. 

Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, 
Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far away — 
He heard the pealing of his parish bells ; 
Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle 
Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart 
Spoken with That, which being everywhere 
Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone, 
Surely the man had died of solitude. 

Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went 
Year after year. His hopes to see his own, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 583 

And pace the sacred old familiar fields, 

Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom 

Came suddenly to an end. Another ship 

(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds, 

Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, 

Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay : 

For since the mate had seen at early dawn 

Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle 

The silent water shpping from the hills, 

They sent a crew that landing burst away 

In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the shores 

With clamor. DownAvard from his mountain-gorge 

Stept the long-hair'cl, long-bearded solitary, 

BroAvn, looking hardly human, strangely clad. 

Muttering and mumbling, idiot-like it seem'd. 

With inarticulate rage, and making signs 

They knew not what : and yet he led the way 

To where the rivulets of sweet water ran ; 

And ever as he mingled with the crew. 

And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue 

Was loosen'd, till he made them understand ; 

Whom, when tlieii* casks were fill'd they took aboard : 

And there the tale he utter'd brokenly, 

Scarce credited at first but more and more, 

Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it : 

And clothes they gave him and free passage home ; 

But oft he Avork'd among the rest and shook 

His isolation from him. None of these 

Came from his county, or could answer him. 

If questional, aught of what he cared to know. 

And dull the voyage was with long delays, 

The vessel scarce sea-worthy ; but evermore 

His fancy fled before the lazy wind 

Returning, till beneath a clouded moon 

He like a lover down thro' all his blood 

Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath 

Of England, blown across her ghostly wall : 

And that same morning officers and men 

Levied a kindly tax upon themselves. 

Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it : 

Then moving up the coast they landed him, 

Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before. 

There Enoch spoke no word to any one. 
But homeward — home — what home ? had he a home ? 



584 ENOCH ARDEN. 

His home, he walk'd. Bright Avas that afternoon, 
Sunny but chill ; till drawn thro' either chasm, 
Where either haven open'd on the deeps, 
Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray ; 
Cut oif the length of highway on before, 
And left but narrow breadth to left and right 
Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage. 
On the nigh-naked tree the robin piped 
Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down : 
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom ; 
Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the place. 

Then down the long street having slowly stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity, 
His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home 
Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes 
In those far off seven happy years were born ; 
But finding neither light nor murmur there 
(A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept 
Still downward, thinlcing, " Dead, or dead to me ! '' 

Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity. 
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old. 
He thought it must have gone ; but he was gone 
Who kept it ; and his widow, Miriam Lane, 
With daily-dwindling profits held the house ; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now 
Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 

But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in. 
Told him, with other annals of tlie port. 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so bow'd, 
So broken — - all the story of his house. 
His baby's death, her growing poverty, 
How Philip put her little ones to school. 
And kept them in it, his long wooing her, 
Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth 
Of Philip's child : and o'er his countenance 
No shadow past, nor motion : any one, 



ENOCH ARBEN. 585 

Regarding, well bad deem'd he felt the tale 
Less than the teller : only when she closed, 
" Enoch, poor man, Avas cast away and lost," 
He, shaking his gray head pathetically, 
Repeated muttering, " Cast away and lost ; " 
Again in deeper inward whispers, " lost ! " 

But Enoch yearn'd to see her face again ; 
(" If I might look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is happy."/ So the thought 
Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him forth, 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was growino; duller twilio;ht, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below ; 
There did a thousand memories roll upon him. 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light. 
Far blazing from the rear of Philip's house, 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, 
The latest house to landward ; but behind, 
'With one small gate that open'd on the waste, 
Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd : 
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yew-tree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it : 
But Enoch shnnn'd the middle walk and stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence 
That Avhich he better might have shunn'd, if griefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnish'd board 
Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth : 
And on the i-ight hand of the hearth he saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees ; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms. 
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they laughed : 



586 ENOCH ARDEN. 

And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
The mother glancing often toward her babe, 
But turning now and then to speak with him, 
Her son, who stood beside her, tall and strong, 
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. 

Now when the dead man come to life beheld 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, 
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, 
And his own children tall and beautiful. 
And him, that other, reigning in his place, 
Lord of his rights and of his children's love, — 
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all. 
Because things seen are mightier than things heard, 
Staggar'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, 
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, 
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a thief, 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, 
And feeling all along the garden-wall, 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, 
Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed, 
As hghtly as a sick man's chamber-door, 
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but that his knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. 

" Too hard to bear ! why did they take me thence ? 
O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou 
That did'st uphold me on my lonely isle. 
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 
A little longer ! aid me, give me strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her peace. 
My children too ! must I not speak to these ? 
They know me not. I should betray myself. 
Never : no father's kiss for me — the girl 
So hke her mother, and the boy, my son." 

There speech and thought and nature fail'd a little, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 587 

And he lay tranced ; but when be rose and paced 

Back toward bis solitary bome again, 

All down tbe long and narrow street be went 

Beating it in upon bis w^eary brain. 

As tho' it were tbe burden of a song, 

" Not to tell ber, never to let ber know." 

He was not all unbappy. His resolve 
Upbore bim, and firm faitb, and evermore 
Prayer from a living source witbin tbe will, 
And beating up tbro' all tbe bitter world. 
Like fountains of sweet water in tbe sea, 
Kept bim a living soul. " Tbis miller's wife," 
He said to Miriam, " tbat you told me of. 
Has sbe no fear tbat ber first busband lives ? " 
"Ay, ay, poor soul," said Miriam, " fear enow ! 
If you could tell ber you bad seen bim dead, 
Wby, tbat would be ber comfort ; " and be tbougbt, 
"After tbe Lord bas call'd me sbe sball know, 
I wait His time," and Enocb set bimself, 
Scorning an alms, to work wbereby to live. 
Almost to all tbings could be turn bis band. 
Cooper be was and carpenter, and wrougbt 
To make tbe boatmen fisbing-nets, or belp'd 
At lading and unlading tbe tall barks, 
Tbat brougbt tbe stinted commerce of tbose days ; 
Tbus earn'd a scanty living for bimself: 
Yet since be did but labor for bimself. 
Work witbout bope, tbere was not life in it 
Wbereby tbe man could live ; and as tbe year 
RoU'd itself round again to meet tbe day 
Wben Enocb bad return'd, a languor came 
Upon bim, gentle sickness, gradually 
Weakening tbe man, till be could do no more. 
But kept tbe bouse, bis cbair, and last bis bed. 
And Enocb bore bis Aveakness cbeerfully. 
For sure no gladlier does tbe stranded wreck 
See tbro' tbe gray skirts of a lifting squall 
Tbe boat tbat bears tbe bope of life approach 
To save the life despair'd of, than be saw 
Death dawning on him, and the close of all. 

For thro'- tbat dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope 
On Enocb tbinking, "After I am gone, 
Then may sbe learn I loved her to tbe last." 



588 ENOCH ARDEN". 

He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said, 

" Woman, I have a secret — only swear, 

Before I tell you — swear upon the book 

Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." 

" Dead," clamor'd the good woman, " hear him talk ! 

I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round." 

" Swear," added Enoch sternly, " on the book." 

And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. 

Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, 

" Did you know Enoch Arden of this town ? " 

" Know him ? " she said, " I knew him far away. 

Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street ; 

Held his head high, and cared for no man, he." 

Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her ; 

" His head is low, and no man cares for him. 

I think I have not three days more to live ; 

I am the man." At which the woman gave 

A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 

" You Arden, you ! nay, — sure he was a foot 

Higher than you be." Enoch said again, 

'/ My God has bow'd me down to what I am ; 

My grief and solitude have broken me ; 

Nevertheless, know you that I am he 

Who married — but that name has twice been changed 

I married her who married Philip Ray. 

Sit, listen." Then he told her of his voyage. 

His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back. 

His gazing in on Annie, his resolve. 

And how he kept it.] As the woman heard, 

Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears. 

While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly 

To rush abroad all round the little haven, 

Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes ; 

But awed and promise-bounden she forbore, 

Saying only, " See your bairns before you go ! 

Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and arose 

Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung 

A moment on her words, but then replied. 

^T Woman, disturb me not now at the last, 
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 
Sit down again ; mark me and understand. 
While I have power to speak. I charge you now, 
When you shall see her, tell her that I died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her ; 



ENOCH ARDEX. 589 

Save for the bar between us, loving lier 
As when she laid her head beside my own. 
And tell my daughter Annie, Avhom I saw 
So like her mother, that my latest breath 
Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. 
And tell my son that I died blessing him. 
And say to Philip that I blest him too ; 
He never meant us anything but good. 
But if my children care to see me dead, 
Who hardly knew me living, let them come, 
I am their father ; but she must not come, 
For my dead fice would vex her after-life. 
And now there Is but one of all my blood 
Who w^ill embrace me in the world-to-be : 
This hair Is his : she cut It off and gave It, 
And I have borne It with me all these years, 
And thought to bear It -with me to my grave ; 
But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him, 
M\' babe in bliss : wherefore when I am gone, 
Take, give her this, for It may comfort her : 
It will moreover be a token to her, 
That I am he.'iy 

He ceased ; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising all. 
That once again he roll'd his eyes upon her 
liepeatlng all he wish'd, and once again 
She promised. 

Then the third night after this, 
While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale. 
And Miriam watch'd and dozed at Intervals, 
There came so loud a calling of the sea. 
That all the houses in the haven rang. 
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad. 
Crying with a loud voice, ["A sail ! a sail ! 
I am saved ; ." and so fell b^ck and spoke no more. 

So past the strong heroic soul away. 
And when they buried him the little port 
Had seldom seen a costHer funeral. 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 

1793. 

Dust are our frames ; and, gilded dusfc, our pride 
Looks only for a moment whole and sound ; 
Like that long-buried body of the king, 
Found lying with his urns and ornaments, 
Which at a touch of light, an air of heaven, 
Slipt into ashes and was found no more. 

Here is a story which in rougher shape 
Came from a grizzled cripple, whom I saw 
Sunning himself in a waste field alone — 
Old, and a mine of memories — who had served, 
Long since, a bygone Rector of the place. 
And been himself a part of what he told. 

Sir Aylmer Aylmer that almighty man, 
The county God — in whose capacious hall. 
Hung with a hundred shields, the family-tree 
Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate king — 
Whose blazing wyverh weathercock'd the spire, 
Stood from his walls and wing'd his entry-gates 
And swang besides on many a windy sign — 
Whose eyes from under a pyramidal head 
Saw from his windows nothing save his own — 
What lovelier of his own had he than her, 
His only child, his Edith, whom he loved 
As heiress and not heir regretfully ? 



aylmer's field. 591 

But, " he that marines her marries her name," 
This fiat somewhat soothed himself and wife, 
His wife a faded beauty of the Baths, 
Insipid as the Queen upon a card ; 
Her all of thought and bearing hardly more 
Than his own shadow in a sickly sun. 

A land of hops and poppy-mingled corn. 
Little about it stirring .save a bix)ok ! 
A sleepy land where under the same wheel 
The same old rut would deepen year by year ; 
AVliere almost all the village had one name ; 
Where Aylmer follow'd Aylmer at the Hall 
And Averill Averill at the Rectory 
Thrice over ; so that Rectory and Hall, 
Bound in an immemorial intimacy, 
Were open to each other ; tho' to dream 
That Love could bind them closer well had made 
The hoar hair of the Baronet bristle up 
With horror, worse than had he heard his priest 
Preach an inverted scripture, sons of men 
Daughters of God ; so sleepy was the land. 

And might not Averill, had he will'd it so. 
Somewhere beneath his own low range of roofs. 
Have also set his many-shielded tree ? 
There was an Aylmer- Averill marriage once, 
When the red rose was redder than itself, 
And York's white rose as red as Lancaster's, 
With wounded peace which each had prick'd to death. 
" Not proven " Averill said, or laughingly 
" Some other race of Averills," — prov'n or no. 
What cared he ? what, if other or the same ? 
He lean'd not on his fathers but himself. 
But Leolin, his brother, living oft 
With Averill, and a year or two before 
Call'd to the bar, but ever call'd away 
By one low voice to one (lear neighborhood, 
Would often, in his walks with Edith, claim 
A distant kinship to the gracious blood 
That shook the heart of Edith hearing him. 

Sanguine he was : a but less vivid hue 
Than of that islet in the chestnut-bloom 
Flamed in his cheek ; and eager eyes, that still 



592 aylmp:k's field. 

Took joyful note of all things joyful, beam'd, 

Beneath a manelike mass of rolling gold, 

Their best and brightest, when they dwelt on hers, 

Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect else, 

But subject to the season or the mood. 

Shone like a mystic star between the less 

And greater glory varying to and fro, 

We know not wherefore ; bounteously made, 

And yet so finely, that a troublous touch 

Thinn'd, or would seem to thin her in a day, 

A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. 

And these had been together from the first. 

Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, hers : 

So much the boy foreran ; but when his date 

Doubled her own, for want of playmates, he 

(Since Averill was a decade and a half 

His elder, and their parents underground) 

Had tost his ball and flown his kite, and roll'd 

His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her dipt 

Against the rush of the air in the prone swing, 

Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, arranged 

Her garden, sow'd her name and kept it green 

In living letters, told her fairy-tales, 

Show'd her the fairy footings on the grass, 

The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms, 

The petty mare's-tail forest, fairy pines, 

Or from the tiny pitted target blew 

What look'd a flight of fairy arrows aira'd 

All at one mark, all hitting : make-believes 

For Edith and himself: or else he forged, 

But that was later, boyish histories 

Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, wreck, 

Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and true love 

Crown'd after trial ; sketches rude and faint, 

But where a passion yet unborn perhaps 

Lay hidden as the music of the moon 

Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale. 

And thus together, save for college-times 

Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair 

As ever painter painted, poet sang. 

Or Heav'n in lavish bounty moulded, grew. 

And more and more, the maiden woman-grown, 

He wasted hours with Averill ; there, when first 

The tented winter-field was broken up 

Into that phalanx of the summer spears 



aylmkk's field. 593 

That soon should wear the garland ; there again 

When burr and bine were gather'd ; lastly tliere 

At Christinas ; ever welcome at the Hall, 

On whose dull sameness his full tide of youth 

Broke with a phosphorescence cheering even 

My lady ; and the Baronet yet had laid 

No bar between them : dull and self-involved, 

Tall and erect, but bending from his height 

With half-allowing smiles for all the world, 

And mighty courteous in the main — his pride 

Lay deeper than to wear it as his ring — 

He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism, 

Would care no more for Leolin's walking with her 

Than for his old Newfoundland's, when they ran 

To loose him at the stables, for he rose 

Twofooted at the limit of his chain, 

Roaring to make a third : and how should Love, 

Whom the cross-lightnings of four chance-met eyes 

Flash into fiery liie fi"om nothing, follow 

Such dear familiarities of dawn ? 

Seldom, but Avhen he does, Master of all. 

So these young hearts not knowing that they loved, 
Not she at least, nor conscious of a bar 
Between them, nor by plight or broken ring- 
Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, 
Wander'd at will, but oft accompanied 
By Averill : his, a brother's love, that hung 
With wings of brooding shelter o'er her peace. 
Might have been other, save for Leolin's — 
AVho knows ? but so they wander'd, hour by hour 
Gather'd the blossom that rebloom'd, and drank 
The magic cup that fiU'd itself anew. 

A whisper half reveal'd her to herself 
For out beyond her lodges, where the brook 
Vocal, with here and tliere a silence, ran 
By sallowy rims, arose the laborers' homes, 
A frequent haunt of Edith, on low knolls 
That dimpling died into each other, huts 
At random scatter'd, each a nest in bloom. 
Her art, her hand, her counsel all had wrought 
About them : here was one that, summer-blanch'd, 
AVas parcel-bearded with the traveller's joy 
In Autunni, parcel ivy-clad ; and here 

38 ♦ 



594 



AYLMERS FIELD. 



The warm-blue breathings of a hidden hearth 
Broke from a bower of vine and honeysuckle : 
One look'd all rose-tree, and another wore 
A close-set robe of jasmine sown with stars : 
This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers 
About it ; this, a milky-way on earth, 




Like visions in the Northern dreamer's heavens, 

A lily-avenue climbing lo the doors ; 

One,- almost to the martin-haunted eaves 

A summer-burial deep in hollyhocks ; 

Each, its own charm ; and Edith's everywhere ; 

And Edith ever visitant with him, 



595 



He but less loved than Edith, of her poor : 
For she — so lowly-lovely and so loving, 
Queenly responsive when the loyal hand 
Rose from the clay it work'd in as she past, 
Not sowing hedgerow texts and passing by. 
Nor dealing goodly counsel from a height 
That makes the lowest hate it, but a voice 
Of comfort and an open hand of help, 
A splendid presence flattering the poor roofs 
Revered as theirs, but kindlier than themselves 
To ailing wife or wailing infancy 
Or old bedridden palsy, — was adored ; 
He, loved for her and for himself. A grasp 
Having the warmth and muscle of the heart, 
A childly way wdth children, and a laugh 
Ringing like proven golden coinage true, 
Were no false passport to that easy realm, 
Where once with Leolin at her side the girl, 
Nursing a child, and turning to the warmth 
The tender pink five-beaded baby-soles. 
Heard the good mother softly whisper, " Bless, 
God bless 'em : marriages are made in Heaven." 

A flash of semi-jealousy clear'd it to her. 
My lady's Indian kinsman, unannounced. 
With half a score of swarthy faces came. 
His own, tho' keen and bold and soldierly, 
Sear'd by the close ecliptic, was not fair ; 
Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled the hour, 
Tho' seeming boastful : so when first he dash'd 
Into the chronicle of a deedful day. 
Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile 
Of patron, " Good ! my lady's kinsman ! good ! " 
My lady with her fingers interlock'd, 
And rotatory thumbs on silken knees, 
Call'd all her vital spirits into each ear 
To listen : unawares they flitted off. 
Busying themselves about the flowerage 
That stood from out a stiff brocade in which, 
The meteor of a splendid season, she. 
Once with this kinsman, ah so long ago, 
Stept thro' the stately minuet of those days : 
But Edith's eager fancy hurried with him 
Snatch'd thro' the perilous passes of his life: 
Till Leolin, ever watchful of her eye. 



596 aylmer's field. 

Hated him with a momentary hate. 
Wife-hunting, as the rumor ran, was he : 
I know not, for he spoke not, only shower'd 
His oriental gifts on every one 
And most on Edith : like a storm he came, 



Among the gifts he left her (possibly 
He flow'd and ebb'd uncertain, to return 
When others had been tested) there was one, 
A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels on it 
Sprinkled about in gold that branch'd itself 
Fine as ice-ferns on January panes 
Made by a breath. I know not whence at first, 
Nor of what race, the work ; but as he told 
The story, storming a hill-fort of thieves 
He got it ; for their captain after fight, 
His comrades having fought their last below, 
Was climbing up the valley ; at whom he shot : 
Down from the beetling crag to which he clung 
Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet, 
This dagger with him, which when now admired 
By Edith whom his pleasure was to please, 
At once the costly Sahib yielded to her. 

And Leolin, coming after he was gone. 
Tost over all her presents petulantly : 
And when she show'd the wealthy scabbard, saying, 
" Look, what a lovely piece of workmanship ! " 
Slight was his answer, " Well — I care not for it ; " 
Then playing with the blade he prick'd his hand. 
"A gracious gift to give a lady, this ! " 
" But would it be more gracious," ask'd the girl, 
" Were I to give this gift of his to one 
That is no lady ? " " Gracious ? No," said he. 
" Me ? — but I cared not for it. O pardon me, 
I seem to be ungraciousness itself." 
" Take it," she added sweetly, " tho' his gift ; 
For I am more ungracious ev'n than you, 
I care not for it either ; " and he said, 
" Why then I love it ; " but Sir Aylmer past, 
And neither loved nor liked the thing he heard. 

The next day came a neighbor. Blues and reds 
They talk'd of; blues were sure of it, he thought ; 



AYLMER S FIELD. 



597 



Then of the latest fox — where started — kill'd 

In such a bottom : " Peter had the brush, 

My Peter, fii-st ; " and did Sir A}'hner know 

That great pock-pitten fellow had been caught ? 

Then made his pleasure echo, hand to hand, 

And rolling as it were the substance of it 

Between his palms a moment up and down — 

" The birds were warm, the birds were warm upon him ; 

We have him now : " and had Sir Aylmer heard — 

Nay, but he must — the land was ringing of it — 

This blacksmith-border marriage — one they knew — 

Raw from the nursery — who could ti'ust a child ? 

That cursed France Avith her egalities ! 

And did Sir Aylmer (deferentially 

"With nearing chair and lower'd accent) think — 

For people talk'd — that it was wholly wise 

To let that handsome fellow Averill walk 

So freely with his daughter ? people talk'd — ■ 

The boy might get a notion into him ; 

The girl might be entangled ere she knew. 

Sir A}lmer A}-lmer slowly stiifening spoke : 

" The girl and boy. Sir, know their differences ! " 

" Good," said his friend, " but watch ! " and he, " Enough, 

More than enough, Sir ! I can guard my own." 

They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer watch'd. 

Pale, for on her the thunders of the house 
Had fallen fii-st, was Edith that same night ; 
Pale as the Jephtha's daughter, a rough piece 
Of early rigid color, under which 
Withdrawing by the counter door to that 
Which Leolin open'd, she cast back upon him 
A piteous glance, and vanish'd. He, as one 
Caught in a burst of unexpected storm, 
And pelted with outrageous epithets, 
Turning beheld the Powers of the House 
On either side of the hearth, indignant ; her, 
Cooling her false cheek with a feather-flin. 
Him glaring, by his own stale devil spurr'd. 
And, like a beast hard-ridden, breathing hard. 
" Ungenerous, dishonorable, base, 
Presumptuous ! trusted as he was with her, 
The sole succeeder to their wealth, their lands, 
The last remaining pillar of tlieir house, 
The one transmitter of their ancient name, 



598 aylmer's field. 

Thftir child." " Our child ! " " Our heiress ! " " Ours ! 

for still, 
Like echoes from beyond a hollow, came 
Her sicklier iteration. Last he said, 
" Boy, mark me ! for your fortunes are to make. 
I swear you shall not make them out of mine. 
Now inasmuch as you have practised on her, 
Perplext her, made her half forget herself, 
Swerve from her duty to herself and us — 
Things in an Aylmer deem'd impossible, 
Far as we track ourselves — I say that this — 
Else I withdraw favor and countenance 
From you and yours forever — shall you do. 
Sir, when you see her — but you shall not see her — 
No, you shall write, and not to her, but me : 
And you shall say that having spoken with me. 
And after look'd into yourself, you find 
That you meant nothing — as indeed you know 
That you meant nothing. Such a match as this ! 
Impossible, prodigious I " These were words, 
As meted by his measure of himself, 
Arguing boundless forbearance : after which, 
And Leolln's horror-stricken answer, " I 
So foul a traitor to myself and her. 
Never, oh never," for about as long 
As the wind-hover hangs in balance, paused 
Sir Aylmer, reddening from the storm within, 
Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and crying, 
" Boy, should I find you by my doors again, 
My men shall lash you from them like a dog ; 
Hence ! " with a sudden execration drove 
The footstool from before him, and arose ; 
So, stammering " scoundrel " ou' r^ teeth that ground 
As in a dreadful dream, while )lin still i 

Retreated half-aghast, the fiercn ' 'd man 
Folio w'd, and under his own li; i\ stood 
Storming with lifted hands, a ry face 
Meet for the reverence of th .rth, but now. 

Beneath a pale and unimpas •- moon, 
Vext with unworthy madness deform'd. 

Slowly and conscious of th 2;eful eye 

That watch'd him, till he hcc. he ponderous door 

Close, crashing with long ech. thro' the land, 

Went Leolin ; then, his passic all in flood 



aylmer's field. 599 

And masters of his motion, furiously 

Down thro' the bright LiAvns to his brotlier's ran, 

And foam'd away his heart at Averill's ear: 

Whom Averill solaced as he might, amazed : 

The man was his, had been his father's, friend : 

He must have seen, himself had seen it long ; 

He must have known, himself had known : besides, 

He never yet had set his daughter forth 

Here in the woman-markets of the west. 

Where our Caucasians let themselves be sold. 

Some one, he thought, had slander'd Leolin to him. 

" Brother, for I have loved you more as son 

Than brother, let me tell you : I myself — 

What is their pretty saying ? jilted, is it ? 

Jilted I was : I say it for your peace. 

Pain'd, and, as bearing in myself the shame 

The woman should have borne, humiliated, 

I lived for years a stunted, sunless life ; 

Till after our good parents past away 

Watching your growth, I 'seem'd again to grow. 

Leolin, I almost sin in envying you : 

The very whitest lamb in all my fold 

Loves you : I know her: -the w^orst thought she has 

Is whiter even than her pretty hand : 

She must prove true : for, brother, where two fight 

The strongest wins, and truth and love are strength. 

And you are happy : let her parents be." 

But Leolin cried out the more upon them — 
Insolent, brainless, heartless ! heiress, wealth, 
Their wealth, their heiress ! wealth enough was theirs 
For twenty matches; -Were he lord of this. 
Why twenty boys a?*^"^ '':^irls should marry on it. 
And forty blest ones- ;.bss him, and himself 
Be wealthy still, ay,'"'' %lthier. He believed 
This filthy marriage-^ 'dering Mammon made 
The harlot of the citi ': ' nature crost 
Was mother of the fl - ' ;^ulteries 
That saturate soul \ " ;dy. Name, too ! name. 
Their ancient name . , f miglit be proud ; its vvortli 
Was being Edith's. how pale she had look'd. 

Darling, to-night! th^^- 'uist have rated her 
Beyond all tolerance.' Aese old pheasant-lords. 
These partride-breedi *)f a thousand years. 
Who had mildew'd ir ;teir thousands, doing nothing 



600 aylmer's field. 

Since Egbert — why, the greater their disgrace ! 
Fall back upon a name ! rest, rot in that ! 
Not keep it noble, make it nobler ? fools, 
AVith such a vantage-ground for nobleness ! 
He had known a man, a quintessence of man, 
The life of all — who madly loved — and he, 
Thwarted by one of these old father-fools, 
Had rioted his life out, and made an end. 
He would not do it ! her sweet face and faith 
Held him from that : but he had powers, he knew it : 
Back would he to his studies, make a name. 
Name, fortune too : the world should ring of him 
To shame these mouldy Aylmers in their graves : 
Chancellor, or what is greatest would he be — 
" O brother, I am grieved to learn your grief — 
Give me my fling, and let me say my say." 

At which, like one that sees his own excess, 
And easily forgives it as his own. 
He laugh'd ; and then was mute ; but presently 
Wept like a storm : and honest Averill seeing 
How low his brother's mood had fallen, fetch'd 
His richest beeswing from a binn reserved 
For banquets, praised the waning red, and told 
The vintage — when tJiis Aylmer came of age — 
Then drank and past it ; till at length the two, 
Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, agreed 
That much allowance must be made for men. 
After an angry dream this kindlier glow 
Faded with morning, but his purpose held. 

Yet once by night again the lovers met, 
A perilous meeting under the tall pines 
That darken'd all the northward of her Hall. 
Him, to her meek and modest bosom prest 
In agony, she promised that no force. 
Persuasion, no, nor death could alter her : 
He, passionately hopefuller, would go. 
Labor for his own Edith, and return 
In such a sunlight of prosperity 
He should not be rejected. "Write to me ! 
They loved me, and because I love their child 
They hate me : there is war between us, dear, 
Which breaks all bonds but ours; we must remain 
Sacred to one another." So they talk'd, 



aylmer's field. 601 

Poor children, for tbeii' comfort : the wind blew ; 
The rain of heaven, and their own bitter tears, 
Teai-s, and the careless rain of heaven, mixt 
Upon their faces, as they kiss'd each other 
In darkness, and above them roar'd the pine. 

So Leolin went ; and as we task ourselves 
To learn a language known but smatterlngly 
In phrases here and there at random, toil'd 
Mastering the lawless science of our law, 
That codeless myriad of precedent, 
That wilderness of single instances, 
Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune led. 
May beat a pathway out to wealth and fame. 
The jests, that flash'd about the pleader's room. 
Lightning of the hour, the pun, the scurrilous tale, — 
Old scandals buried now seven decades deep 
In other scandals that have lived and died. 
And left the living scandal that shall die — 
AYere dead to him aheady; bent as he was 
To make disproof of scorn, and strong in hopes. 
And prodigal of all brain-labor he, 
Charier of sleep, and wine, and exercise. 
Except when for a breathing-while at eve, 
Some niggard fraction of an hour, he ran 
Beside the river-bank : and then indeed 
Harder the times were, and the hands of power 
Were bloodier, and the according hearts of men 
Seem'd harder too ; but the soft river-breeze, 
Which fann'd the gardens of that rival rose 
Yet fraorant in a heart rememberino; 
His former talks Avith Edith, on him breathed 
Far purelier in his rushings to and fro, 
After his books, to flush his blood with air, 
Then to his books again. My lady's cousin. 
Half-sickening of his pension'd afternoon. 
Drove in upon the student once or twice. 
Ran a IMalayan muck against the times. 
Had golden hopes for France and all mankind, 
Answer'd all queries touching those at home 
With a heaved shoulder and a saucy smile, 
And fain had haled him out into the world. 
And air'd him there : his nearer friend would say, 
" Screw not the chord too sharply lest it snap." 
Then left alone he pluck'd her dagger forth 



602 aylmer's field. 

From where his worldless heart had kept It warm, 

Kissing his vows upon it like a knight. 

And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of him 

Approvingly, and prophesied his rise : 

For heart, I think, help'd head : her letters too, 

Tho' far between, and coming fitfully 

Like broken music, written as she found 

Or made occasion, being strictly watch'd, 

Charm'd him thro' every labyrinth till he saw 

An end, a hope, a light breaking upon him. 

But they that cast her spirit into flesh, 
Her worldly-wise begetters, plagued themselves 
To sell her, those good parents, for her good. 
Whatever eldest-born of rank or wealth 
Might lie within their compass, him they lured 
Into their net made pleasant by the baits 
Of gold and beauty, wooing him to woo. 
So month by month the noise about their doors, 
And distant blaze of those dull banquets, made 
The nightly wirer of their innocent hare 
Falter before he took it. All in vain. 
Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, return'd 
Leolin's rejected rivals from their suit 
So often, that the folly taking wings 
Slipt o'er chose lazy limits down the wind 
With rumor, and became in other fields 
A mockery to the yeoman over ale, 
And laughter to their lords : but those at home, 
As hunters round a hunted creature draw 
The cordon close and closer toward the death, 
Narrow'd her goings out and comings in ; 
Forbade her first the house of Averill, 
Then closed her access to the wealthier farms. 
Last from her own home-circle of the poor 
They barr'd her : yet she bore it : yet her cheek 
Kept color : wondrous ! but, O mystery ! 
What amulet drew her down to that old oak, 
So old, that twenty years before, a part 
Falling had let appear the brand of John — 
Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, but now 
The broken base of a black tower, a cave 
Of touchwood, with a single flourishing spray. 
There the manorial lord too curiously 
Raking in that millennial touchwood-dust 



aylmer's field. 603 

Found for himself a bitter treasure-trove ; 

Bui-st his own wyvern on the seal, and read 

Writhing a letter from his child, for which 

Came at the moment Leolin's emissary, 

A crippled lad, and coming turn'd to fly. 

But scared with threats of jail and halter gave 

To him that fluster'd his poor parish wits 

The letter wdiich he brought, and swore besides 

To play their go-between as heretofore 

Nor let them know themselves betray'd ; and then 

Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, went 

Hating his own lean heart and miserable. 

Thenceforward oft from out a despot dream 
The father panting woke, and oft, as dawn 
Aroused the black republic on his elms, 
Sweeping the frothfly from the fescue brush'd 
Thro' the dim meadow toward his treasure-trove, 
Seized it, took home, and to my lady, — who made 
A downward crescent of her minion mouth. 
Listless in all despondence, — read ; and tore. 
As if the living passion symbol'd there 
AVere living nerves to feel the rent ; and burnt. 
Now chafing at his own great self defied, 
Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks of scorn 
In babyisms, and dear diminutives 
Scattered all over the vocabulary 
Of such a love as like a chidden child. 
After much wailing, hush'd itself at last 
Hopeless of answer : then tho' Averill wrote 
And bade him with good heart sustain himself — 
All would be well — the lover heeded not, 
But passionately restless came and went. 
And rustling once at night about the place, 
There by a keeper shot at, slightly hurt, 
Raji-ing return'd : nor was it well for her 
Kept to the garden now, and grove of pines, 
Watch'd even there ; and one was set to watch 
The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd them all, 
Yet bitterer from his readings : once indeed, 
Warm'd with his wines, or taking pride in her, 
She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her tenderly, 
Not knowing what possess'd him : that one kiss 
Was Leolin's one strong rival upon earth ; 
Seconded, for my lady follow'd suit, 



604 aylmer's field. 

Seem'd hope's returning rose : and then ensued 

A martin's summer of his faded love, 

Or ordeal hy kindness ; after this 

He seldom crost his child without a sneer ; 

The mother flow'd in shallower acrimonies : 

Never one kindly smile, one kindly word : 

So that the gentle creature shut from all 

Her charitable use, and face to face 

With twenty months of silence, slowly lost, 

Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on life. 

Last, some low fever ranging round to spy 

The weakness of a people or a house, 

Like flies that haunt a wound, or deer, or men, 

Or almost all that is, hurting the hurt — 

Save Christ as we believe him — found the girl 

And flung her down upon a couch of fire. 

Where careless of the household faces near, 

And crying upon the name of Leolin, 

She, and with her the race of Aylmer, past. 

Star to star vibrates light : may soul to soul 
Strike thro' a finer element of her own ? 
So, — from afar, — touch as at once ? or why 
That night, that moment, when she named his name, 
Did the keen shriek, " Yes, love, yes, Edith, yes," 
Shrill, till the comrade of his chambers woke, 
And came upon him half-arisen from sleep, 
With a weird bright eye, sweating and trembling, 
His hair as it were crackling into flames. 
His body half flung forward in pursuit, 
And his long arms stretch'd as to grasp a flyer : 
Nor knew he wherefore he had made the cry ; 
And being much befool'd and idioted 
By the rough amity of the other, sank 
As into sleep again. The second day, 
My lady's Indian kinsman rushing in, 
A breaker of the bitter news from home. 
Found a dead man, a letter edged with death 
Beside him, and the dagger which himself 
Gave Edith, redden'd with no bandit's blood : 
" From Edith " was engraven on the blade. 

Then Averil went and gazed upon his death. 
And when he came again, his flock believed — 
Beholding how the years which are not Time's 



aylmer's field. 605 

Had blasted him — that many thousand days 

Were dipt by horror from his term of life. 

Yet the sad mother, for the second death 

Scarce tonch'd her thro' that nearness of the fii'st, 

And being used to find her pastor texts, 

Sent to the haiTow'd brother, praying him 

To speak before the people of her child, 

And fixt the Sabbath. Darkly that day rose: 

Autumn's mock-sunshine of the faded "woods 

Was all the life of it ; for hard on these, 

A breathless burden of low-folded heavens 

Stifled and chill'd at once : but every roof 

Sent out a listener ; many too had known 

Edith among the hamlets round, and since 

The parents' harshness and the hapless loves 

And double death were Avidely murmur'd, left 

Their own gray tower, or plain-faced tabernacle, 

To hear him ; all in mourning these, and those 

With blots of it about them, ribbon, glove. 

Or kerchief; while the church, — one night, except 

For greenish glimmerings thro' the lancets, — made 

Still paler the pale head of him, Avho tower'd 

Above them, with his hopes in either grave. 

Long o'er his bent brows linger'd Averill, 
His face magnetic to the hand from which 
Livid he pluck'd it forth, and labor'd thro' 
His brief prayer-prelude, gave the verse, " Behold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate ! " 
But lapsed into so long a pause again 
As half amazed, half frighted all his flock : 
Then from his height and loneliness of grief 
Bore down in flood, and dash'd his angry heart 
Against the desolations of the world. 

Never since our bad earth became one sea, 
Which rolling o'er the palaces of the proud. 
And all but those Avho knew the living God — 
Eight that were left to make a p'^rer world — 
When since had flood, fire, earthquake, thunder, wrought 
Such waste and havoc as the idolatries, 
Which from the low light of mortality 
Shot up their shadows to the Heaven of Heavens, 
And Avorshipt their own darkness as the Highest V 
" Gash thyself priest, and honor thy brute Baiil, 



606 aylmer's field. 

And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself, 

For with thy worst self hast thou clothed thy God. 

Then came a Lord in no wise like to Baal. 

The babe shall lead the lion. Surely now 

The wilderness shall blossom as the rose. 

Crown thyself, worm, and worship thine own lusts ! — 

No coarse and blockish God of acreage 

Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel to — 

Thy God is far diffused in noble groves 

And princely halls, and farms, and flowing lawns, 

And heaps of living gold that daily grow, 

And title-scrolls and gorgeous heraldries. 

In such a shape dost thou behold thy God. 

Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for liim ; for thine 

Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair 

Ruffled upon the scarfskin, even while 

The deathless ruler of thy dying house 

Is wounded to the death that cannot die ; 

And tho' thou numberest with the followers 

Of One who cried, " Leave all and follow me." 

Thee therefore with His light about thy feet, 

Thee with His message ringing in thine ears. 

Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord from Heaven, 

Born of a village girl, carpenter's son. 

Wonderful, Prince of Peace, the Mighty God, 

Count the more base idolater of the two ; 

Crueller : as not passing thro' the fire 

Bodies, but souls — thy children's — thro' the smoke, 

The blight of low desires — darkening thine own 

To thine own likeness ; or if one of these, 

Thy better born unhappily from thee. 

Should, as by miracle, grow straight and fair — 

Friends, I was bid to speak of such a one 

By those who most have cause to sorrow for her — 

Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well, 

Fairer than Ruth among the fields of corn, 

Fair as the angel that said, " Hail," she seem'd. 

Who entering fill'd the house with sudden light. 

For so mine own was brighten'd : where indeed 

The roof so lowly but that beam of heaven 

Dawn'd sometime thro' the doorway ? whose the babe 

Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, 

Warm'd at her bosom ? The poor child of shame. 

The common care whom no one cared for, leapt 

To greet her, wasting his forgotten heart. 



aylmer's field. 607 

As with the mother he had never knoAvn, 
In gambols ; for her fresh and innocent eyes 
Had such a star of morning in their blue, 
That all neglected places of the field 
Broke into Nature's music when they saw her. 
Low was her voice, but won mysterious way 
Thro' the seal'd ear to which a louder one 
Was all but silence — free of alms her hand — 
The hand that robed your cottage-walls with flowers 
Has often toil'd to clothe yom' little ones ; 
How often placed upon the sick man's brow 
Cool'd it, or laid his feverous pillow smooth ! 
Hafl you one sorrow and she shai-ed it not ? 
One burden and she would not lighten it ? 
One spiritual doubt she did not soothe ? 
Or when some heat of dilEference sparkled out. 
How sweetly would she glide between your wraths, 
And steal you from each other ! for she walk'd 
Wearing the light yoke of that Lord of love. 
Who still'd the rolling wave of Galilee ! 
And one — of him I was not bid to speak — 
Was always with her, whom you also knew. 
Him too you loved, for he was worthy love. 
And these had been together from the first ; 
They might have been together till the last. 
Friends, this frail bark of ours, when sorely tried, 
May wreck itself without the pilot's guilt, 
Without the captain's knowledge : hope with me. 
Whose shame is that, if he went hence with shame ? 
Nor mine the fault, if losing both of these 
I cry to vacant chairs and Avidow'd walls, 
' My house is left unto me desolate.' " 

While thus he spoke, his hearei-s wept ; but some, 
Sons of the glebe, with other frowns than those 
That knit themselves for summer shadow, scowl'd 
At their great lord. He, when it seem'd he saw 
No pale sheet-lightnings from afiir, but fork'd 
Of the near storm, and aiming at his head. 
Sat anger-charm'd from sorrow, soldierlike. 
Erect : but when the preacher's cadence flow'd 
Softening thro' all the gentle attributes 
Of his lost child, the wife, who watch'd his face, 
Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron mouth ; 
And " O pray God that he hold up," she thought, 
" Or surely I shall shame myself and him." 



608 aylmer's field. 

" Nor yours the blame — for who beside your hearths 
Can take her place — if echoing me you cry, 
' Our house is left unto us desolate ? ' 
But thou, O thou that killest, had'st thou known, 
O thou that stonest, had'st thou understood 
The things belonging to thy peace and ours ! 
Is there no prophet but the voice that calls 
Doom upon kings, or in the waste, ' Repent ' ? 
Is not our own child on the narrow way. 
Who down to those that saunter in the broad, 
Cries, ' Come up hither,' as a prophet to us ? 
Is there no stoning save with flint and rock ? 
Yes, as the dead we weep for testify — 
No desolation but by sword and fire ? 
Yes, as your moanings witness, and myself 
Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for my loss. 
Give me your prayers, for he is past your prayers, 
Not past the living fount of pity in Heaven. 
But I that thought myself long-suffering, meek. 
Exceeding ' poor in spirit ' — how the words 
Have twisted back upon themselves, and mean 
Vileness, we are grown so proud — I wish'd my voice 
A rushing tempest of the wrath of God 
To blow these sacrifices thro' the world — 
Sent like the twelve-divided concubine 
To inflame the tribes : but there — out yonder — earth 
Lightens from her own central Hell — O there 
The red fruit of an old idolatry — 
The heads of chiefs and princes fall so fast, 
They cling together in the ghastly sack — 
The land all shambles — naked marriages 
Flash from the bridge, and ever-murder'd France, 
By shores that darken with the gathering wolf, 
Runs in a river of blood to the sick sea. 
Is this a time to madden madness then ? 
Was this a time for these to flaunt their pride ? 
May Pharaoh's darkness, folds as dense as those 
Which hid the Holiest from the people's eyes 
Ere the great death, shroud this great sin from all ! 
Doubtless our narrow world must canvass it : 
O rather pray for those and pity them. 
Who thro" their own desire accomplish'd bring 
Their own gray hairs with sorrow to the grave — ■ 
Who broke the bond which they desired to break. 
Which else had link'd their race with times to come — 



aylmer's field. 609 

Who wove coarse webs to snare her purity, 
Grossly contriving" their dear daughter's good — 
Poor souls, and knew not what they did, but sat 
Ignorant, devising their own daughter's death I 
May not that earthly chastisement suffice ? 
Have not our love and reverence left them bare ? 
Will not another take their heritage ? 
Will there be children's laughter in their hall 
Forevei- and forever, or one stone 
Left on another, or is it a light thing 
That I their guest, their host, their ancient friend, 
I made by these the last of all my race 
Must cry to these the last of theirs, as cried 
Christ ere His agony to those that swore 
Not by the temple but the gold, and made 
Their own traditions God, and slew the Lord, 
And left their memories a world's curse — 'Behold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate ' ? " 

Ended he had not, but she brook'd no more : 
Long since her heart had beat remorselessly, 
Her crampt-up sorrow pain'd her, and a sense 
Of meanness in her unresisting life. 
Then their eyes vext her ; for on entering 
He had cast the curtains of their seat aside — 
Black velvet of the costliest — she herself 
Had seen to that : fain had she closed them now, 
Yet dared not stir to do it, only near'd 
Her husband inch by inch, but when she laid, 
Wifellke, her hand in one of his, he veil'd 
His face with the other, and at once, as falls 
A creeper when the prop is broken, fell 
The woman shrieking at his feet, and swoon'd. 
Then her own people bore along the nave 
Her pendent hands, and narrow meagre face 
Seam'd with the shallow cares of fifty years : 
And her the Lord of all the landscape round 
Ev'n to its last horizon, and of all 
Who peer'd at him so keenly, follow'd out 
Tall and erect, but in the middle aisle 
Reel'd as a footsore ox in crowded ways 
Stumbling across the market to his death, 
Unpitied ; for he groped as blind, and seem'd 
Always about to fall, grasping the pews 
And oaken finials till he touch'd the door; 
30 



610 SEA DREAMS. 

Yet to the lycligate, where his chariot stood, 
Strode from the porch, tall and erect again. 

But nevermore did either pass the gate 
Save under pall with bearers. In one month, 
Thro' weary and yet ever wearier hours. 
The childless mother went to seek her child ; 
And when he felt the silence of his house 
About him, and the change and not the change, 
And those fixt eyes of painted ancestors 
Staring forever from their gilded walls 
On him their last descendant, his own head 
Began to droop, to fall ; the man became 
Imbecile ; his one word was " desolate ; " 
Dead for two years before his death was he ; 
But when the second Christmas came, escaped 
His keepers, and the silence which he felt. 
To find a deeper in the narrow gloom 
By wife and ctiild ; nor wanted at his end 
The dark retinue reverencing death 
At golden thresholds ; nor from tender hearts, 
And those who sorrow'd o'er a vanish'd race, 
Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave. 
Then the great Hall was wholly broken down. 
And the broad woodland parcell'd into farms ; 
And where the two contrived their daughter's good, 
Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has made his run, 
The hedgehog underneath the plantain bores. 
The rabbit fondles his OAvn harmless face, 
The slow-worm creeps, and the thin weasel there 
Follows the mouse, and all is open field. 



SEA DREAMS. 

A CITY clerk, but gently born and bred ; 
His wife, an unknown artist's orphan child — 
One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three years old : 
They, thinking that her clear germander eye 
Droopt in the giant-factoried city-gloom. 
Came, with a month's leave given them, to the sea 
For which his gains were dock'd, however small : 
Small were his gains, and hard his work ; besides, 
Their slender household fortunes (for the man 
Had risk'd his httle) Uke the little thrift. 



SEA DREAMS. 611 

Trembled in perilous places o'er a deep : 

And oft, when sitting all alone, his face 

Would darken, as he cursed his credulousness, 

And that one unctuous mouth which lured him, rogue, 

To buy strange shares in some Peruvian mine. 

Now seaward-bound for health they galn'd a coast, 

All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning cave. 

At close of day ; slept, woke, and went the next, 

The Sabbath, pious varlers fi*om the church. 

To chapel ; Avhere a heated pulpiteer. 

Not preaching simple Christ to simple men. 

Announced the coming doom, and fulminated 

Against the scarlet woman and her creed : 

For sideways up he swung his arms, and shrlek'd, 

'' Thus, thus with violence," ev'n as if he held 

The Apocalyptic millstone, and himself 

Were that great Angel ; " thus with violence 

Shall Babylon be cast into the sea ; 

Then comes the close." The gentle-hearted wife 

Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world ; 

He at his own : but when the wordy storm 

Had ended, forth they came and paced the shore, 

Ran in and out the long sea-framing caves, 

Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce believed 

(The sootflake of so many a summer still 

Clung to their fancies) that they saw, the sea. 

So now on sand they walk'd, and now on cliff, 

Lingering about tlie thymy promontories. 

Till all the sails were darken'd in the west, 

And rosed in the east : then homeward and to bed : 

Where she, who kept a tender Christian hope 

Haunting a holy text, and still to that 

Returning, as the bird returns, at night, 

" Let not the sun go doAvn upon your Avrath," 

Said, " Love, forgive him " : but he did not speak ; 

And silenced by that silence lay the wife. 

Remembering her dear Lord who died for all. 

And musing on the little lives of men. 

And how they mar this little by their feuds. 

But while the two were sleeping, a full tide 
Rose with ground-swell, which, on the foremost rocks 
Touching, upjetted in spirts of wild sea-smoke, 
And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, and fell 
In vast sea-cataracts — ever and anon 



612 SEA DREAMS. 

Dead claps of tlmnder from within the cliffs 
Heard thro' the living roar. At this the babe, 
Their Margaret, cradled near them, wail'd and woke 
The mother, and the father suddenly cried, 
"A wreck, a wreck ! " then turn'd, and groaning, said, 

" Forgive ! How many will say ' forgive,' and find 
A sort of absolution in the sound 
To hate a little longer ! No ; the sin 
That neither God nor man can well forgive, 
Hypocrisy, I saw it In him at once. 
Is It so true *that second thoughts are best ? 
Not first, and third, which are a riper first ? 
Too ripe, too late ! they come too late for use. 
Ah, love, there surely lives in man and beast 
Something divine to warn them of their foes : 
And such a sense, when first I fronted him. 
Said, ' Trust him not ; ' but after, when I came 
To know him more, I lost it, knew him less ; 
Fought with what seem'd my own uncharity ; 
Sat at his table ; drank his costly wines ; 
Made more and more allowance for his talk ; 
Went further, fool ! and trusted him with all, 
All my poor scrapings from a dozen years 
Of dust and desk work :^ there Is no such mine, 
None ; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing gold, 
Not making. Ruln'd ! ruin'd ! the sea roars 
Ruin : a fearful night ! " 

" Not fearful ; fair," 
Said the good wife, " if every star In heaven 
Can make it fair : you do but hear the tide. 
Had you ill dreams ? " 

" O yes," he said, '' I dream'd 
Of such a tide swelling toward the land. 
And I from out the boundless outer deep 
Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd one 
Of those dark caves that run beneath the cliffs. 
I thought tlie motion of the boundless deep 
Bore through the cave, and I was heaved upon it 
In darkness : then I saw one lovely star 
Larger and larger. ' What a world,' I thought, 
' To live in ! ' but In moving on I found 
Only the landward exit of the cave, 



SEA DUKAMS. 



613 



Bright with the sun upon the stream beyond : 
And near the light a giant woman sat, 
All oyer earthy, like a piece of earth, 
A pickaxe in her hand : then out I slipt 
Into a land all sun ai\d blossom, trees 




As high as heaven, and every bird that sings : 
And here the night-light flickei'ing in my eyes 
Awoke me." 



" 'I'liaf was then }our dream," she said, 
Not. sad, but sweet." 



614 8EA DREAMS. 

" So sweet, I lay," said he, 
"And mused upon it, drifting up the stream 
In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced 
The broken vision ; for I dream'd that still 
The motion of the great deep bore me on. 
And that the woman walk'd upon the brink : 
I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd her of it : 
' It came,' she said, ' by working in the mines : ' 

then to ask her of my shares, I thought ; 
And ask'd ; but not a word ; she shook her head. 
And then the motion of the current ceased. 
And there was rolling thunder ; and we reach'd 
A mountain, like a wall of burs and thorns ; 
But she with her strong feet up the steep hill 
Trod out a path : I follow'd ; and at top 

She pointed seaward : there a fleet of glass. 

That seem'd a fleet of jewels under me, 

Sailing along before a gloomy cloud 

That not one moment ceased to thunder, past 

In sunshine : right across its track there lay, 

Down in the water, a long reef of gold, 

Or what seem'd gold : and I was glad at first 

To think that in our often-ransack'd Avorld 

Still so much gold was left ; and then I fear'd 

Lest the gay navy there should splinter on it, 

And fearing waved my arm to warn them off; 

An idle signal, for the brittle fleet 

(I thought I could have died to save it) near'd, 

Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and vanish'd, and I woke, 

1 heard the clash so clearly. Now I see 

My dream was Life ; the Avoman honest Work ; 
And my poor venture but a fleet of glass 
Wreck'd on a reef of visionary gold." 

" Nay," said the kindly wife to comfort him, 
" You raised your arm, you tumbled down and broke 
The glass with little Margaret's medicine in it ; 
And, breaking that, you made and broke your dream : 
A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks." 

" No trifle," groan'd the husband ; " yesterday 
I met him suddenly in the street, and ask'd 
That which I ask'd the woman in my dream. 
Like her, he shook his head. ' Show me the books ! ' 
He dodged me with a long and loose account. 



SEA DREAMS. 615 

' The books, the books ! ' but he, he could not wait, 

Bound on a matter he of life and death : 

When the great Books (see Daniel seven and ten) 

Were open'd, I should find he meant me well ; 

And then began to bloat himself, and ooze 

All over witli the fat affectionate smile 

That makes the Avldow lean. ' My dearest friend. 

Have faith, have faith ! We live by faith,' said he ; 

'And all things work together for the good 

Of those ' — it makes me sick to quote him — last 

Gript my hand hard, and with God-bless-you went. 

I stood like one that had received a blow : 

I found a hard friend in his loose accounts, 

A loose one in the hard grip of his hand, 

A curse in his God-bless-you : then my eyes 

Pursued him down the street, and far away, 

Among the honest shoulders of the crowd, 

Read rascal in the motions of his back, 

And scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee." 

" Was he so bound, poor soul ? " said the good wife ; 
" So are we all : but do not call him, love. 
Before you prove him, rogue, and proved, forgive. 
His gain is loss ; for he that wrongs his friend 
Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about 
A silent court of justice in his breast. 
Himself the judge and jury, and himself 
The prisoner at the bar, ever condemn'd : 
And that drags down his life : then comes what comes 
Hereafter : and he meant, he said he meant. 
Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, you well." 

" ' With all his conscience and one eye askew' — 
Love, let me quote these lines, that you may learn 
A man is likewise counsel for himself, 
Too often, in tliat silent court of yours — • 
' With all his conscience and one eye askew, 
So false, he partly took himself for true ; 
Whose pious talk, when most his heart was dry, 
Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round his eye ; 
Who, never naming God except for gain, 
So never took that useful name in vain ; 
Made Him his catspaw and the Cross his tool, 
And Christ the bait to trap his dupe and fool ; 
Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace he forged, 



610 SEA DREAMS. 

And snakelike slimed his victim ere lie gorged ; 

And oft at Bible-meetings, o'er the rest 

Arising, did his holy, oily best, 

Dropping the too rough H in Hell and Heaven, 

To spread the Word by which himself had thriven.' 

How like you this old satire ? " 

" Nay,'' she said, 
" I loathe it : he had never kindly heart, 
Nor ever cared to better his own kind, 
Who first Avrote satire, with no pity in it. 
But will you hear my dream, for I had one 
That altogether went to music ? Still 
It awed me." 

Then she told it, having dream'd 
Of that same coast. 

— But round the North, a light, 
A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, lay, 
And ever in it a low musical note 
Swell'd up and died ; and, as it swell'd, a ridge 
Of breaker issued from the belt, and still 
Grew with the growing note, and when the note 
Had reach'd a thunderous fulness, on those clifis 
Broke, mixt with awful light (the same as that 
Living within the belt) whereby she saw 
That all those lines of cliffs were cliffs no more, 
But huge cathedral-fronts of every age. 
Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye could see. 
One after one : and then the great ridge drew, 
Lessening to the lessening music, back. 
And past into the belt and swell'd again 
Slowly to music : ever when it broke, 
The statues, king or saint, or founder, fell ; 
Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin left 
Came men and women in dark clusters round. 
Some crying, " Set them up ! they shall not fall ! " 
And others, " Let them lie, for they have fall'n." 
And still they strove and wrangled : and she grieved 
In her strange dream, she knew not why, to find 
Their wildest wailings never out of tune 
With that sweet note ; and ever as their shrieks 
Ran highest up the gamut, that great wave 
Returning, while none mark'd it, on the crowd 



SEA DREAMS. 617 

Broke, mlxt with awful light, and show'd their ejes 
Glaring, and passionate looks, and swept away 
The men of flesh and blood, and men of stone, 
To the waste deeps together. 

-' Then I fixt 
My wistful eyes on two fair images, 
Both crown'd with stai*s and high among the stars, — 
The Virgin Mother standing with her child 
High up on one of those dark minster-fi-onts — 
Till she began to totter, and the child 
Clung to the mother, and sent out a cry 
Which mixt with little Margaret's, and I woke, 
And my dream awed me : — well — but what are dreams ? 
Youi-s came but from the breaking of a glass, 
And mine but from the crying of a child." 

" Child ? No ! " said he, " but this tide's roar, and his, 
Our Boanerges, with his threats of doom. 
And loud-lung'd Antibabylonianisms 
(Altho' I grant but little music there) 
Went both to make your dream : but if there were 
A music harmonizing our wild cries. 
Sphere-music such as that you dream'd about, 
Why, that would make our passions far too like 
The discords dear to the musician. No — 
One shriek of hate would jar all the hymns of heaven : 
True Devils with no ear, they howl in tune 
With nothing but the Devil ! " 

" ' True,' indeed ! 
One of our town, but later by an hour 
Here than ourselves, spoke with me on the shore ; 
While you were running down the sands, and made 
The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbeloAv flap. 
Good man, to please the child. She brought strange news. 
Why were you silent when I spoke to-night ? 
I had set my heart on your forgiving him 
Before you knew. W^e must tbrgive the dead." 

" Dead ! who is dead ? " 

" The man your eye pursued. 
A little after you had parted with him, 
He suddenly dropt dead of heart-disease." 



618 SEA DREAMS. 

" Dead ? he ? of heart-disease ? what heart had he 
To die of? dead!" 

"Ah, dearest, if there be 
A devil in man, there is an angel too, 
And if he did that wrong you charge him with, 
■ His angel broke his heart. But your rough voice 
(You spoke so loud) has roused the child again. 
Sleep, little birdie, sleep ! will she not sleep 
Without her ' little birdie ? ' well then, sleep, 
And I will sing you ' birdie.' " 

Saying this, 
The woman half turn'd round from him she loved, 
Left him one hand, and reaching thro' the night 
Her other, found (for it was close beside) 
And half embraced the basket cradle-head 
With one soft arm, which, like the pliant bough 
That moving moves the nest and nestling, sway'd 
The cradle, while she sang this baby-song. 

What does little birdie say 
In her nest at peep of day ? 
Let me fly, says little birdie, 
Mother, let me fly away. 
Birdie, rest a little longer, 
Till the little wlng-s are stronger. 
So she rests a little longer. 
Then she flies away. 

What does little baby say, 
In her bed at peep of day ? 
Baby says, like little birdie. 
Let me rise and fly away. 
Baby, sleep a little longer. 
Till the little limbs are stronger. 
If she sleeps a little longer. 
Baby too shall fly away. 

" She sleeps : let us too, let all evil, sleep. 
He also sleeps — another sleep than ours. 
He can do no more wrong : forgive him, dear. 
And I shall sleep the sounder ! " 

Then the man, 
" His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come. 



THE GRANDMOTHER. G19 

Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound : 
I do forgive him ! " 

" Thanks, my love," she said, 
" Your own will be the sweeter," and they slept. 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 

I. 

And WiUy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Annie ? 
Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a 

man. 
And Willy's wife has written : she never was overwise, 
Never the wife for Willy : he would n't take my advice. 

11. 

For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save, 
Had n't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave. 
Pretty enough, very pretty ! but I was against it for one. 
Eh ! — but he would n't hear me — and Willy, you say, is 
gone. 

in. 

Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock ; 
Never a man could fling him : for Willy stood like a rock. 
" Here 's a leg for a babe of a Aveek ! " says doctor ; and he 

would be bound, 
There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round. 

IV. 

Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his 

tongue ! 
I ought to have gone before him : I wonder he went so 

young. 
I cannot cry for him, Annie : I have not long to stay ; 
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away. 

v.- 

AVhy do you look at me, Annie ? you think I am hard and 

cold ; 
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old: 
I cannot weep for AVilly, nor can I weep for the rest; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 



620 THE GRANDMOTHER. 

VI. 

For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear, 
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear. 
I mean your grandfather, Annie : it cost me a world of woe, 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

VII. 

For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew 

right well 
That Jenny had tript in her time : I knew, but I would not 

tell. 
And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little 

liar ! 
But the tongue is a fire, as you know, my dear, the tongue 

is a fire. 

VIII. 
And the parson made it his text that week, and he said 

likewise, 
That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies, 
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with 

outright. 
But a lie which is Dart a truth is a harder matter to jSght. 

IX. 

And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and 

a day; 
And all things look'd half dead, tho' it was the middle of 

May. 
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been I 
But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean. 

X. 

And I cried myself wellnigh blind, and all of an evening 

late 
I clim'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at 

the gate. 
The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale. 
And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the 

nightingale. 

•XI. 
All of a sudden he stopt: there past by tne gate of the 

farm, 
Willy, — he did n't see me, — and Jenny hung on his arm. 
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how ; 
Ah, there's no fool like the old one — it makes me angry 

now. 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 621 

XII. 

Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he 

meant ; 
Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtsey and went. 
And I said, " Let iis part : in a hundred years it '11 all be 

the same. 
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name." 

XIII. 

And he turn'd, and I saw, his eyes all wet, in the sweet 

moonshine : 
" Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is 

mine. 
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill ; 
But marry me out of hand : we two shall be happy still." 

XIV. 

" Marry you, Willy ! " said I, " but I needs must speak my 

mind, 
And I fear you '11 listen to tales, be jealous and hard and 

unkind." 
But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, 

" No, love, no ; " 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

XV. 

So Willy and I were wedded : I wore a lilac gown ; 

And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers 

a crown. 
But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born, 
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. 

XVI. 

That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. 
There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a 

breath. 
I had not wept, little Annie, not since I had been a wife ; 
But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought 

for his life. 

XVII. 
His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain : 
I look'd at the still little body — his trouble had all been in 

vain. 
For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn : 
But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before 

he was bom. 



622 THE GRANDMOTHER. 

XVIII. 

But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said me 

nay : 
Kind, like a man, was he ; like a man, too, would have his 

way : 
Never jealous — not he: we had many a happy year; 
And he died, and I could not weep — my own time seem'd 

so near. 

XIX. 
But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could 

have died : 
I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side. 
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget : 
But as to the children, Annie, they 're all about me yet. 

XX. 

Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two, 
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie hke you : 
Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will, 
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the 

hill. 

XXI, 
And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too — they sing to 

their team : 
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream. 
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed — 
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. 

XXII. 

And yet I know for a truth, there 's none of them left alive ; 
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five : 
And Willy, my eldest-born, at nigh threescore and ten ; 
I knew them all as babies, and now they 're elderly men. 

XXIII. 

For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve ; 
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve : 
And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I ; 
I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone 

by. 

XXIV. 
To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad : 
But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had ; 
And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall 

cease ; 
And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace. 



NOKTHERN FARMER. 623 

XXV. 

And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain, 
And happy has been my life ; but I would not live it again. 
I seem to be tired a little, that 's all, and long for rest ; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 

XXVI. 

So WiUy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower ; 
But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour, — 
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next ; 
I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext ? 

XXVII. 

And Willy's wife has written, she never was overwise. 
Get me my glasses, Annie : thank God that I keep my eyes. 
There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away. 
But stay with the old woman now : you cannot have long 
to stay. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 

OLD STYLE. 
I. 

Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin' 'ere aloan ? 
Noorse ? thoort nowt o' a noorse : whoy, Doctor's abean an* 

agoan : 
Says that I meant 'a naw moor yaale : but I beant a fool : 
Git ma my yaale, for I beant a-gooin' to break my rule. 

II. 

Doctors, they knaws nowt, for a says what 's nawways true : 
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a do. 
I 've 'ed my point o' yaale ivry noight sin' I bean 'ere, 
An' I 've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty year. 

III. 

Parson 's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin 'ere o' my bed. 

" The amoighty 's a taiikin o' you to 'issen, my friend," a 

said, 
An' a towd ma my sins, an 's toithe were due, an' I gied it 

in hond ; 
I done my duty by un, as I 'a done by the lond. 



624 NOTHERN PARMER. 

IV. 

Larn'd a ma' be'a. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn. 
But a cost oop, tliot a did, 'boot Bessy Marris's barn. 
Thof a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire an' choorch an' 

staate, 
An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin the raate. 

V. 

An' I hallus comed to 's choorch afoor moy Sally wur dead, 
An' 'eerd un a bummin' awaay loike a buzzard-clock * ower 

my yead, 
An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I thowt a 'ad sum- 

mut to saay, 
An I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said an' I comed awaay. 

VI. 

Bessy Marris's barn ! tha knaws she laaid it to mea. 
Mowt 'a beiin, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 
'Siver, I kep un, I kep un, my lass, tha mun understond ; 
I done my duty by un as I 'a done by the lond. 

VII. 

But Parson a comes an' a goos, an' a says it easy an' freea 
" The amoighty 's a taakin' o' you to 'issen, my friend," says 

'ea. 
I weant saay men be loiars, thof summun said it in 'aaste : 
But a reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' I 'a stubb'd Thornaby 

waaste. 

VIII. 
D'ya moind the waaste, my lass ? naw, naw, tha was not 

born then ; 
Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eerd un mysen ; 
Moast loike a butter-bump,f for I 'eerd un aboot an' aboot, 
But I stubb'd un oop wi' the lot, an' raaved an' rembled un 

cot. 

IX. 
Reaper's it wur ; fo' they fun un theer a-laaid on 'is faace 
Doon i' the woild 'enemies J afoor I comed to the plaace. 
Noaks or Thimbleby — toner 'ed shot un as dead as a naail. 
Naaks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize— but git ma my 

yaale. 

X. 
Dubbut looak at the waaste : theer warn't not fead for a cow : 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' looak at it now — 

* Cockchafer. f Bittern. J Anemones. 



NORTHERX FARMER. 625 

Warnt worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer 's lots o' fead, 
Fourscore yows upon it an' some on it doon in sead. 

XT. 
Nobbut a bit on it 's left, an' I mean'd to 'a stubb'd it at 

fall, 
Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thruff' it an' all. 
If godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let ma aloan, 
Mea, wi' halite oonderd haacre o' Squoire's, an' lond o' my 

oan. 

XII. 
Do godamoighty knaw what a's doing a-taakin' o' mea ? 
I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an' yonder a pea ; 
An' S(juoire 'ull be sa mad an' all — a' dear a' dear ! 
And I 'a monaged for Squoire come Michaelmas thirty year. 

xin. 

A mowt 'a taaken Joanes, as 'ant a 'aapoth o' sense, 
Or a mowt 'a taaken Robins — a niver mended a fence : 
But godamoighty a moost taake mea an' taake ma now 
Wi 'auf the cows to cauve an' Thornaby holms to plow ! 

XIV. 

Looak 'ow quoloty smoiles when they sees ma a passin' by, 
Says to thessen naw doot " what a mon a be'a sewer-ly ! " 
For they knaws Avhat I bean to Squoire sin fust a corned to 

the 'AH ; 
I done my duty by Squoire an' I done my duty by all. 

XV. 

Squoire 's in Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to wroite, 
For who 's to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles ma 

quoit ; 
Sartin-sewer I beii, thot a weant niver give it to Joanes, 
Koither a moant to Robins — a niver rembles the stoans. 

XVI. 

But summun 'ull come ater mea mayhap wi' 'is kittle o' 

steam 
Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi' the Divil's oan 

team. 
Gin I mun doy I mun doy, an' loife they says is sweet. 
But gin I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to see it. 
40 



626 TITHONUS. 

XVII. 

What atta stannin' theer for, an' doesn bring ma the yaale ? 

Doctor 's a 'tottler, lass, an a's hallus i' the owd taale ; 

I weant break rules for Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a 

floy; 
Git ma my yaale I tell tha, an' gin I mun doy I mun doy. 



TITHONUS. 

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, 

The vapors weep their burden to the ground, 

Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, 

And after many a summer dies the swan. 

Me only cruel immortality 

Consumes : I wither slowly in thine arms, • 

Here at the quiet limit of the world, 

A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream 

The ever silent spaces of the East, 

Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. 

Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a man — 
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice. 
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd 
To his great heart none other than a God ! 
I ask'd thee, " Give me immortality." 
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile. 
Like wealthy men who care not how they give. 
But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills. 
And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me, 
And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd 
To dwell in presence of immortal youth. 
Immortal age beside immortal youth, 
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, 
Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now, 
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, 
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears 
To hear me ? Let me go : take back thy gift : 
Why should a man desire in any way 
To vary from the kindly race of men 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 
Where all should pause, as is most meet for all i 



TITHONUS. 627 

A soft air fans the cloud apart ; there comes 
A glimpse of that dark Avorld where I was born. 
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, 
And bosom beating with a heart renevv'd. 
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom, 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team 
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, 
And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes, 
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. 

Lo ! ever thus thou growest beautiful 
In silence, then before thine answer given 
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. 

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears. 
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt, 
In days far off, on that dark earth, be true ? — 
*' The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts." 

Ay me ! ay me ! with what another heart 
In days far off', and with what other eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that watch'd — 
The lucid outline forming round thee ; saw 
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; 
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay. 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm 
With kisses balmier than half-openings buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd 
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, 
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. 

Yet hold me not forever in thine East : 
How can my nature longer mix with thine ? 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about the homes 
Of happy men that have the power to die. 
And grassy barrows of the happier dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the ground ; 



628 THE VOYAGE. 

Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave : 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn ; 
I earth in earth forget these empty courts, 
And thee returning on thy silver wheels. 



THE VOYAGE. 

I. 

We left behind the painted buoy 

That tosses at the harbor-mouth ; 
And madly danced our hearts with joy, 

As fast we fleeted to the South : 
How fresh was every sight and sound 

On open main or winding shore ! 
We knew the merry world was round, 

And we might sail for evermore. 
II. 
Warm broke the breeze against the brow. 

Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail : 
The Lady's-head upon the prow 

Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd the gale. 
The broad seas swell'd to meet the keel, 

And swept behind : so quick tlie run, 
We felt the good ship shake and reel. 

We seem'd to sail into the Sun ! . 
III. 
How oft we saw the Sun retire, 

And burn the threshold of the night, 
Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire, 

And sleep beneath his pillar'd light ! 
How oft the purple-skirted robe 

Of twilight slowly downward drawn. 
As thro' the slumber of the globe 

Again we dash'd into the dawn ! 
IV. 
New stars all night above the brim 

Of waters lighten'd into view ; 
They climb'd as quickly, for the rim 

Changed every moment as we flew. 
Far ran the naked moon across 

The houseless ocean's heaving field, 
Or flying shone, the silver boss 

Of her own halo's dusky shield ; 



THE VOYAGE. 629 



The peaky islet shifted shapes, 

High towns on hills were dimly seen, 
We past long lines of Northern capes 

And dewy Northern meadows green. 
We came to warmer waves, and deep 

Across the boundless East we drove, 
Where those long swells of breaker sweep 

The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. 
VI. 
By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, 

Gloom'd the low coast and qui\'ering brine 
With ashy rains, that spreading made 

Fantastic plume or sable pine ; 
By sands and steaming flats, and floods 

Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, 
And hills and scarlet-mingled woods 

Glow'd for a moment as we past. 
VII. 
O hundred shores of happy climes. 

How swiftly stream'd ye by the bark ! 
At times the whole sea burn'd, at times 

With wakes of fire we tore the dark ; 
At times a carven craft would shoot 

From havens hid in fairy bowers. 
With naked limbs and flowers and fruit, 

But we nor paused for fi-uit nor flowers, 
VIII. 
For one fair Vision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day and night, 
And still we follow'd where she led, 

In hope to gain upon her flight. , 
Her face was evermore unseen. 

And fixt upon the far sea-line ; 
But each man murmur'd, " O my Queen, 

I follow till I make thee mine." 
IX. 
And now we lost her, now she gleam'd 

Like Fancy made of golden air. 
Now nearer to the prow she seem'd 

Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair, 
Now high on waves that idly burst 

Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd the sea. 
And now, the bloodless point reversed. 

She bore the blade of Liberty. 



630 IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ. 

X. 

And only one among us — him 

We pleased not — he was seldom pleased : 
He saw not far : his eyes were dim : 

But ours he swore were all diseased. 
"A ship of fools," he shriek'd in spite, 

"A ship of fools," he sneer'd and wept. 
And overboard one stormy night 

He cast his body, and on we swept. 
XI. 
And never sail of ours was forl'd, 

Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn ; 
We loved the glories of the world, 

But laws of nature were our scorn ; 
For blasts would rise and rave and cease, 

But whence were those that drove the sail 
Across the whirlwind's heart of peace. 

And to and thro' the counter-gale ? 
XII. 
Again to colder climes we came. 

For still we follow'd where she led : 
Now mate is blind and captain lame, 

And half the crew are sick or dead. 
But blind or lame or sick or sound 

We follow that which flies before : 
We know the merry world is round, 

And we may sail for evermore. 



IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ. 

All along the valley, stream that flashest white. 

Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night, 

All along the valley, where thy waters flow, 

I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years ago. 

All along the valley while I walk'd to-day. 

The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away ; 

For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed, 

Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead, 

And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree, 

The voice of the dead was a living voice to me. 



KKQUIKSCAT. G3 1 



THE FLOWER. 

Onck In a golden hour 
I cast to earth a seed. 

Up there came a flower, 
The people said, a weed. 

To and fro they went 
Thro' my garden-bower. 

And muttering discontent 
Cursed me and my flower. 

Then it grew so tall 

It wore a crown of light, 

But thieves from o'er the wall 
Stole the seed by night. 

Sow'd it far and wide 

By every town and tower, 

Till all the people cried, 
" Splendid is the flower." 

Read my little fable : 
He that runs may read. 

Most can raise the flowers now, 
For all have got the seed. 

And some are pretty enough, 
And some are poor indeed ; 

And now again the people 
Call it but a weed. 



REQUIESCAT. 

Fair is her cottage in its place, 

AVhere yon broad water sweetly, slowly glides. 
It sees itself from thatch to base 

Dream in the sliding tides. 

And fairer she, but ah how soon to die! 

Her quiet dream of life this hour may cease. 
Her peaceful being slowly passes by 

To some more perfect peace. 




THE SAILOR BOY. 

He rose at dawn and, fired with hope, 
Shot o'er the seething liarbor-bar, 

And reaeh'd the ship and caught the rope, 
And whistled to the morning-star. 

And Avliile he whistled long and loud 
He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, 

" O bo}', tho' thou art young and proud, 
I see the place Avhere thou wilt lie. 

" The sands and yeasty surges mix 
In eaves about the dreary bay. 

And on thy ribs the limpet sticks, 

And in thy heart the scrawl shall play." 

" Fool," he answer'd, " death is sure 

To those that stay and those that roam, 

But I will nevermore endure 

To sit with empty hands at home. 



" My mother clings about my neck, 
My sisters crying, ' Stay for shame;' 

My father raves of death and wreck. 

They are all to blame, they are all to blame. 



THE ISLET. 633 



" God help me ! save I take my part 
Of danger on the roaring sea, 

A devil rises in my heart, 

Far worse than any death to me." 



THE ISLET. 

" Whither, O whither, love, shall we go. 

For a score of sweet little summers or so," 

The sweet little wife of the singer said. 

On the day that follow'd the day she was wed, 

" Whither, O whither, love, shall we go ? " 

And the singer shaking his cm4y head 

Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys 

There at his right with a sudden crash. 

Singing, "And shall it be over the seas 

With a crew that is neither rude nor rash, 

But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek'd. 

In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak'd, 

With a satin sail of a ruby glow, 

To a sweet little Eden on earth that I know, 

A mountain islet pointed and peak'd ; 

Waves on a diamond shingle dash, 

Cataract brooks to the ocean run, 

Fairily-delicate palaces shine 

Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine, 

And overstream'd and silvery-streak'd 

With many a rivulet high against the Sun 

The facets of the glorious mountain flash 

Above the valleys of palm and pine." 

" Thither, O thither, love, let us go." 

" No, no, no ! 

For in all that exquisite isle, my dear. 
There is but one bird with a musical throat. 
And his compass is but of a single note. 
That it makes one weary to hear." 

" Mock me not ! mock me not ! love, let us go " 



634 THE ISLET. 



" No, love, no. 

For the bud ever breaks into bloom on the tree, 
And a storm never wakes on the lonely sea. 
And a worm is there in the lonely wood. 
That pierces the liver and blackens the blood, 
And makes it a sorrow to be." 




thp: ringlet. 



" Your rinirlets, vour rinolets, 

That look so <rol(leii-£>ay, 
If you AvUl give, inc one, but one, 

To kiss it nif]^ht and day, 
Then never chilling touch of Time 

Will turn it silver-gray ; 
And then shall I know it is all true gold 
To flaine and sparkle and stream as of old, 
Till all the comets in heaven are cold, 

And all her stars decay." 
" Then take it, love, and put it by ; 
This cannot change, nor }'et can I." 

2. 
" My ringlet, my ringlet, 

That art so golden-gay. 
Now never chilling touch of Time 

Can turn thee silver-gray ; 
And a lad may wink, and a girl may hint, 

And a fool may say his say ; 
For my doubts and fears were all amiss, 
And 1 swear henceforth by this and this, 
That a doubt will oidy come for a kiss 

And a fear to be kiss'd away.*' 
'' Then kiss it, love, and put it by : 
If this can change, why so can I." 



636 A WKLCOME TO ALEXANDHA. 

II. 

Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I kiss'd you night and day, 
And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You still are golden-gay, 
But Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You should be silver-gray : 
For what is this -which now I 'm told, 

1 that took you for true gold, 

Slie that gave you 's bought and sold. 
Sold, sold. 
2. 
O Ringlet, O Ringlet," 

She blush'd a rosy red. 
When Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She dipt you from her head. 
And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She gave you me, and said, 
" Come, kiss it, love, and put it by : 
If this can change, why so can I." 
O fie, you golden nothing, fie, 
You golden lie. 
3. 
O Ringlet, Ringlet, 

I count you much to blame. 
For Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You put me much to shame. 
So Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I doom you to the flame. 
For what is this which now I learn, 
Has given all my faith a turn ? 
Burn, you glossy heretic, burn, 
Burn, burn. 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. 

March 7, 1863. 

Sea-kings' daughter from over the sea, 

Alexandra ! 
Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, 
But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee, 

Alexandra ! 



A DEDICATION. 637 

Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet ! 

Welcome her, thundering cheer of the street ! 

Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet. 

Scatter the blossom under her feet ! 

Break, happy land, into earlier flowers ! 

Make music, O bird, in the new-budded bowers ! 

Blazon your mottos of blessing and prayer ! 

Welcome her, welcome her, all that is ours ! 

AYarble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare ! 

Flags, flutter out upon turrets and towers ! 

Flames, on the windy headland flare ! 

Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire 1 

Clash, }e bells, in the merry March air ! 

Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire ! 

Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and higher 

Melt into stars for the land's desire ! 

Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice, 

Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the strand, 

Roar as the sea when he welcomes the land. 

And welcome her, welcome the land's desire. 

The sea-kings' daughter as happy as fair, 

Blissful bride of a blissful heir, 

Bride of the heir of the kings of the sea — 

O joy to the people and joy to the throne. 

Come to us, love us, and make us yom' own : 

For Saxon or Dane or Norman we. 

Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, 

We are each all Dane in our welcome of thee, 

Alexandra ! 

A DEDICATION. 

Dear, near, and true — no truer Time himself 
Can prove you, tho' he make you evermore 
Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life 
Shoots to the fall — take this and pray that he, 
Who Avrote it, honoring your sweet faith in him, 
May trust himself; and spite of praise and scorn, 
As one who feels the immeasurable world. 
Attain the wise indifference of the wise ; 
And after Autumn past — if left to pass 
His autunm into seeming-leafless days — 
Drav; toward the lono- frost and lonsjest nioht. 
Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the fruit 
Which in our winter woodland looks a flower.* 

* The fruit, of liic S|)indlc-ti'ee {Etionymus Evr(ri)fr-/ts) 




BOADTCEA. 

While about the shore of Monti those Neronian legioriRrles 
Bui-iit and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and 

Druidess, 
Far In the East Boadicea, standing loftily eharioted, 
Mad and maddening all tnat heard her in her fieree volu- 
bility, 
Girt by half the tribes of Britain, nciar the eolony Caum- 

lodiine, 
Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughtei-s o'er a wild (;on- 
federacy. 

" They thcit scorn the tribes and call us Britain's barbar- 
ous populaces. 

Did they hear nie, would they listen, did they pity me sup- 
plicating ? 

Shall I heed them in their anguish "? shall I brook to be 
supplicated ? 

Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinob;»nt ! 

Must their ever-rjvening eagle's beak and talon annihilate 



Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it gorily (piivering? 
Bark an answer, Britain's raven! bark and blacken iinui- 

merable, 
Blacken round the Roman carrion, make the carcase a 

skeleton, 
Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolfkin, from the wilderness, 

wallow in it, ^ 



BOADICEA. 639 

Till the face of Bel be brighten'd, Taranis be propitiated. 

Lo their colony half-defended ! lo their colony, Caniulodune ! 

There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous 
advei-sary. 

There the hive of Roman liare woi*ship a gluttonous em- 
peror-idiot. 

Such is Rome, and this her deity : hear it, Spirit of Cas- 
sivelaiin ! 

" Hear it, Gods ! the Gods have heard it, O Icenian, O 

Coritanian ! 
Doubt not ye the Gods have answer'd, Catieuchlanian, Tri- 

nobant. 
These have told us all their anger in miraculous utterances, 
Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a murmur heard aerially, 
Phantom sound of bloAvs descending, moan of an enemy 

massacred, ■ 
Phantom wail of women and children, multitudinous agonies. 
Bloodih' flow'd the Tamesa rolling phantom bodies of horses 

and men ; 
Then a phantom colony smoulder'd on the refluent estuary ; 
Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily tottering — 
There was one who watch'd and told me — down their 

statue of Victory fell. 
Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo the colony Camulo- 

diine. 
Shall we teach it a Roman lesson ? shall we care to be 

pitiful ? 
Shall we deal with it as an infant ? shall we dandle it 

amorously ? 

" Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trino- 
bant! 

While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly meditating. 

There I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical cere- 
mony. 

Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible prophet- 
esses. 

' Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery parapets ! 

Tho' the Roman eagle shadoAv thee, tho' the gathering 
enemy narrow thee. 

Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, thou shalt be the 
mighty one yet ! 

Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine the deeds to be 
celebrated, 



640 BOADICEA. 

Thine tlie myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow Illimit- 
able, 

Thine the lands of lasting summer, many-blossoming Para- 
dises, 

Thine the North and thine the South and thine the battle- 
thunder of God.' 

So they chanted : how shall Britain light upon auguries 
happier ? 

So they chanted in the darkness, and there cometh a victory 
now. 

" Hear Icenian, Catleuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trlno- 
bant ! 

Me the wife of rich Prasutagus, me the lover of liberty, 

Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lash'd and 
humiliated, 

Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian violators ! 

See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in ignominy ! 

Wherefore in me burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated. 

Lo the palaces and the temple, lo the colony Camulodune ! 

There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the flourish- 
ing territory. 

Thither at their will they haled the yellow-ringleted Brit- 
on ess — 

Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, inexor- 
able. 

Shout Icenian, Catleuchlanian, shout Coritanian, Trinobant, 

Till the victim hear within and yearn to hurry preciptiously 

Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, like the smoke in a 
hurricane whirl'd. 

Lo the colony, there they rioted in the city of Ciinobe- 
Ime ! 

There they drank in cups of emerald, there at tables of 
ebony lay. 

Rolling on their purple couches in their tender effeminacy. 

There they dwelt and their rioted ; there — there — they 
dwell no more. 

Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, break the works of 
the statuary. 

Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, hold it abom- 
inable, 

Cut the Roman boy to pieces In his lust and voluptuousness, 

Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and humili- 
ated. 



IN QUANTITY. 64.1 

Chop the breasts from off the mother, dash the brains of the 

little one out, 
Up my Britons, on ray chariot, on my chargers, trample 

them under us." 

So the Queen Bo'adicea, standing loftily charioted. 

Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances lioness- 
like, 

Yell'd and shrieked between her daughters in her fierce 
volubility. 

Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated. 

Madly dash'd the darts together, writhing barbarous linea- 
ments. 

Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in 
January, 

Roar'd as when the rolling breakers boom and blanch on 
the precipices, 

Yell'd as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a prom- 
ontory. 

So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adversaries 

Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid unani- 
mous hand. 

Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice, 

TiU she felt the heart within her fall and flutter tremulously, 

Then her pulses at the clamoring of her enemy fainted away. 

Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds. 

Ran the land with Roman slaughter, multitudinous agonies. 

Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a valorous legion- 
ary. 

Fell the colony, city, and citadel, London, Verulam, Camu- 
lodiine. 



IN QUANTITY. 

MILTON. 
Alcaics. 

O mighty-mouth'd inventor of harmonies, 
O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, 
God-gifted organ-voice of England, 

Milton, a name to resound for ages ; 
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, 
41 



G42 TRANSLATION FROM THE ILIAD. 

Stair'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armories, 
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 

Rings to the roar of an angel onset - 
Me rather all that bowery loneliness, 
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, 
And bloom profuse and cedar arches 

Charm, as a Avanderer out in ocean, 
Where some refulgent sunset of India 
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean .isle, 

And crimson-hued the stately palmwoods 
Whisper in odorous heights of even. 



Hendecasylldbics. 



O YOU chorus of indolent reviewers, 

Irresponsible, indolent reviewers, 

Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem 

All composed in a metre of Catullus, 

All in quantity, careful of my motion. 

Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him, 

Lest I fall unawares before the people. 

Waking laughter in indolent reviewers. 

Should I flounder awhile without a tumble 

Thro' this metrification of Catullus, 

They should speak to me not without a welcome, 

All that chorus of indolent reviewers. 

Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble. 

So fantastical is the dainty metre. 

Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me 

Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers. 

O blatant Magazines, regard me rather — 

Since I blush to belaud myself a moment — 

As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost 

Horticultural art, or half coquette-like 

Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly. 



SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD 
IN BLANK VERSE. 

So Hector said, and sea-like roar'd his host ; 
Then loosed their sweating horses from the yoke, 
And each beside his chariot bound his own ; 



THE CAPTAIN. 643 

And oxen from the city, and goodly sheep 
In haste they drove, and honey-hearted wine 
And bread from out the houses brought, and heap'd 
Their firewood, and the winds from off the plain 
Roll'd the rich vapor far into the heaven. 
And these all night upon the bridge * of war 
Sat glorying ; many a fire before them blazed : 
As when in heaven the stars about the moon 
Look beautiful, when all the winds are laid, 
And every height comes out, and jutting peak 
And valley, and the immeasurable heavens 
Break open to their highest, and all the stars 
Shine, and the Shepherd gladdens in his heart : 
So many a fire between the ships and stream 
Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy, 
A thousand on the plain ; and close by each 
Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire ; 
And champing golden grain, the horses stood 
Hard by their chariots, waiting for the dawn.f 

Iliad 8. 542-561. 



THE CAPTAIN. 

A LEGEND OF THE NAVY. 

He that only rules by terror 

Doeth grievous wrong. 
Deep as Hell I count his error. 

Let him hear my song. 
Brave the Captain was : the seamen 

Made a gallant crew, 
Gallant sons of English freemen, 

Sailors bold and true. 
But they hated his oppression, 

Stern he was and rash ; 
So for every light transgression 

Doom'd them to the lash. 
Day by day more harsh and cruel 

Seem'd the Captain's mood. 
Secret wrath like smother'd fuel 

* Or, ridge. 

t Or more literally — 

And eating hoary grain and pulse the steeds 
Stood by their cars, waiting the throned mom. 



644 THE CAPTAIN. 



Burnt in each man's blood. 
Yet he hoped to purchase glory, 

Hoped to make the name 
Of his vessel great in story, 

Wheresoe'er he came. 
So they passed by capes and islands, 

Many a harbor-mouth, 
Sailing under palmy highlands 

Far within the South. 
On a day when they were going 

O'er the lone expanse, 
In the north, her canvas flowing, 

Rose a ship of France. 
Then the Captain's color heighten'd. 

Joyful came his speech : 
But a cloudy gladness lighten'd 

In the eyes of each. 
" Chase," he said : the ship flew forward, 

And the wind did blow ; 
Stately, lightly, went she Norward, 

Till she near'd the foe. 
Then they look'd at him they hated. 

Had what they desired : 
Mute with folded arms they waited — 

Not a gun was fired. 
But they heard the foeman's thunder 

Koaring out their doom ; 
All the air was torn in sunder. 

Crashing went the boom. 
Spars were splinter'd, decks were shatter'd, 

Bullets fell like rain ; 
Over mast and deck were scatter'd 

Blood and brains of men. 
Spars were splinter'd ; decks were broken : 

Every mother's son — 
Down they dropt — no word was spoken — 

Each beside his gun. 
On the decks as they were lying, 

Were their faces grim. 
In their blood, as they lay dying. 

Did they smile on him. 
Those, in whom he had reliance 

For his noble name. 
With one smile of still defiance 
Sold him unto shame. 



THE CAPTAIN. 645 

Shame and wrath his heart confounded, 

Pale he turn'd and red, 
Till himself was deadly wounded. 

Falling on the dead. 
Dismal error ! fearful slaughter ! 

Years have wander'd by, 
Side by side beneath the water 

Crew and Captain lie ; 
There the sunlit ocean tosses 

O'er them mouldering, 
And the lonely seabird crosses 

With one waft of the wins;. 



Come not, when I am dead. 

To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, 
To trample round my fallen head, 

And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. 
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry ; 
But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime 

I care no longer, being all unblest : 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, 

And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie': 
Go by, go by. 



jVIy life is full of weary days. 

But good things have not kept aloof, 
Nor wandered into other ways : 

I have not lack'd thy mild reproof. 
Nor golden largess of thy praise. 

And now shake hands across the brink 
Of that deep grave to which I go : 

Shake hands once more : I cannot sink 
So far — far down, but I shall know 
Thy voice, and answer from below. 



646 THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE. 



THKEE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE. 

Caress'd or chidden by the dainty hand, 

And singing airy trities this or that, 
Light Hope at Beauty's call would perch and stand, 

And run thro' every change of sharp and flat ; 

And Fancy came and at her pillow sat, 
When sleep had bound her in his rosy band, 

And chased away the still-recurring gnat. 
And woke her with a lay from fairy land. 
But now they live with Beauty less and less. 

For Plope is other Hope and wanders far. 
Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious creeds ; 
And Fancy watches in the wilderness, 

Poor Fancy sadder than a single star, 
That sets at twilight in a land of reeds. 

2. 
The form, the form alone is eloquent ! 

A nobler yearning never broke her rest 

Than but to dance and sing, be gayly drest, 
And win all eyes with all accomplishment : 
Yet in the waltzing-circle as we went. 

My fancy made me for a moment blest 

To find my heart so near the beauteous breast 
That once had power to rob it of content. 
A moment came the tenderness of tears. 

The phantom of a wish that once could move, 
A ghost of passion that no smiles restore — 

For ah ! the slight coquette, she cannot love, 
And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand years, 

Slie still would take the praise, and care no more. 

3. 
Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take the cast 

Of those dead lineaments that near thee lie ? 
O sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the past, 

In painting some dead friend from memory ? 
Weep on : beyond his object Love can last : 

His object lives : more cause to weep have I: 
My tears, no tears of love, are flowing fast, 

No tears of love, but tears that Love can die. 



ox A MOURNER. 647 

I pledge her not in any cheerful cup, 

Nor care to sit beside her where she sits — 
Ah pity — ■ hint it not in human tones, 
But breathe it into earth and close it up 
With secret death forever, in the pits 

Which some green Christmas crams with weary bones. 



SONG. 

Lady, let the rolling drums 
Beat to battle where thy warrior stands : 
Now thy face across his fancy comes. 

And gives the battle to his hands. 

Lady, let the trumpets blow. 
Clasp thy little babes about thy knee : 
Now their warrior father meets the foe. 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 



SONG. 

Home they brought him slain with spears. 

They brought him home at even-fall : 
All alone she sits and hears 

Echoes in his empty hall. 

Sounding on the morrow. 

The Sun peep'd in from open field, 
The boy began to leap and prance. 
Rode upon his father's lance, 

Beat upon his father's shield — 

" O hush, my joy, my sorrow." 



ON A MOURNER. 

Nature, so far as in her lies, 
Imitates God, and turns her face 

To every land beneath the skies, 

Counts nothing that she meets with base, 
But lives and loves in every place ; 



648 ON A MOUiiNpm. 

2. 

Fills out the homely quickset-screens, 
And makes the purple lilac ripe, 

Steps from her airy hill, and greens 

The swamp, where hums the dropping snipe, 
With moss and braided marish-pipe ; 

3. 

And on thy heart a finger lays. 

Saying, " Beat quicker, for the time 

Is pleasant, and the woods and ways 
Are pleasant, and the beech and lime 
Put forth and feel a gladder clime." 

4. 

And murmurs of a deeper voice. 
Going before to some far shrine. 

Teach that sick heart the stronger choice, 
Till all thy life one way incline 
With one wide will that closes thine. 

5. 

And when the zoning eve has died 
Where yon dark valleys wind forlorn. 

Come Hope and Memory, spouse and bride, 
From out the borders of the morn. 
With that fair child betwixt them born. 



And when no mortal motion jars 

The blackness round the tombing sod, 

Thro' silence and the trembling stars 

Comes Faith from tracts no feet have trod, 
And Virtue, like a household god 

7. 

Promising empire ; such as those 

That once at dead of night did greet 

Troy's wandering prince, so that he rose 
With sacrifice, while all the fleet 
Had rest by stony hills of Crete. 



THE END. 



3i477-7 



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